


Wait (and he will be gone)

by Maeerin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous John, John Whump, John's POV, M/M, Medical Angst, Pining John, Scars, Sherlock/Victor (non-explicit), Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:13:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4466714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeerin/pseuds/Maeerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up to a reality full of regret and longing. He deals with his physical and emotional state, and much more than he was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song "Wait", and I just listened to the Grey's Anatomy version. Leave Your Lover by Sam Smith also works great and was also inspiration/influential. 
> 
> Recovery time is quickened a little for fiction.
> 
> Technically, John would be at a long-term care home rather than a hospital, but its fiction here, and I had already written pretty much all of it when I realized it.
> 
> DON'T IGNORE THE TAGS, AND CHECK THEM IN CASE I ADD MORE.

**Day 1**

_I didn’t tell him, John_ thought as his body shattered through the glass window.

On the other side, mangled on the pavement with shards piercing his skin and a limb or two out of place, that thought evaporated. Someone was yelling, but John’s eyes slowly slipped closed before he could comprehend the shouts. For an unconceivable amount of time, John was in darkness, catching a few murmurs of incoherent sounds, presumably words, and the occasional tingles along his hands and arms. When he awoke, it was to dim sunlight streaming through the blinds and a choking aroma of flowers, and it only lasted for a second.

The second time John woke up, he was surrounded by darkness still, but that was easily explained when he flickered his eyes to the window, the blinds now closed. In front of the window, sitting in a chair with his head lolling over his shoulder, was Sherlock. He was fast asleep, and as John fell back into…whatever, he produced a thought, the act itself feeling as if he hadn’t done so in ages.

_Well, at least he’s sleeping._

The third time John woke up, it was to the sound of someone moving beside him. He flickered his eyes open, but his vision remained blurry. The figure beside him moved closer, and then there was noise. John blinked and focused his vision, and parted his mouth to speak up, but he couldn’t form a word. As he listened closely, the person was speaking to him, but he couldn’t understand exactly what they were saying.

The person fell quiet, and then squeezed his shoulder gently as she went around his bed and headed out the door. As the door closed, John’s vision slowly started to come into focus. He was lying nearly flat on his back in a bed, and he could see glimpses of wires, tubes, and metal railings around him.

 _Oh, hospital_ , John sluggishly realized. He looked to his left, where there was a window with its curtains partially opened. He could see a glimpse of the outside, and noticed it was bright outside. He turned his head to the direction of the door, and noticed a window revealing the hallway. That was when John saw him.

Sherlock walked down the hall towards John’s door, but then paused and leaned against the window, his back to John. John furrowed his eyebrows and tried to sit up, however a tingle of pain shot through his body, and he immediately stopped the effort. Growing frustrated and even more confused, John tried to raise his hand in order to catch Sherlock’s attention, but he only managed to twitch his hand, and then it remained still.

John sighed, and looked back at Sherlock. His friend’s head was hanging and it looked like he was focused on the floor. After a few moments of uncertainty, Sherlock turned around and entered John’s room. John slowly raised his eyes and met Sherlock’s, who was hesitant in his steps but looking directly at him.

Sherlock came up to the edge of the bed and ran his gaze over John’s body, likely deducing. Finally, he looked back at John and grinned, his face relaxing with relief.

“Finally,” Sherlock sighed.

John heard him, but it took him a few seconds to understand. He continued to furrow his eyebrows, in which Sherlock took as a sign to continue to speak.

“You’ve been in a coma, John,” he explained softly. John could feel himself getting more frustrated, and he couldn’t fathom why. He was still confused, and the information he was getting was too slow. He nodded his understanding, and twitched his hand in order to signal Sherlock to continue. Sherlock’s eyes flickered to John’s hand, and then slowly sat down with a sigh.

“You’ve been like this for...” He paused and looked at John. John looked up at him steadily, urging him to continue.

“For three months,” Sherlock said. John inhaled automatically, and his vision blurred. _Three months?!_

His medical knowledge flooded his brain sluggishly, yet he managed to understand what his body had gone through, and what would need to be done in order to recover. A single day in a coma could require several weeks of recovery. John’s eyes widened as he understood, and then he blinked rapidly, focusing his vision back onto Sherlock. Sherlock continued to stare at him with a soft expression, and was remaining unusually quiet.

John parted his mouth and formed a word, but couldn’t seem to voice it. Instead, he managed a raspy sigh. His cheeks burning, he shut his mouth closed and looked away.

“How?” Sherlock asked.

John looked at him and slowly nodded as he swallowed against a lump in his throat. His eyes started to prickle, but he managed to hold his emotions in.

“You fell through a window,” Sherlock provided.

John’s eyes widened again, and he raised his eyebrows, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock straightened up and continued. “You fell on your side; your left arm was broken in several places and your left thigh was fractured. You fractured a few ribs, had a punctured lung, and a ruptured spleen. And, there were some glass shards piercing your body; most needed stitches and some have scared, like on your arms. You also sustained trauma to your head, and needed brain surgery.”

Sherlock finished, and John processed this. _That would explain the sore chest_. He figured his ribs were the last ones healing. He looked down at his arms and noticed the scars for the first time. Most were thin and only half an inch, although some were a couple inches long, and many of them looked deep. Sherlock was right; they would be, for the most part, permanent.

John inhaled slowly and nodded, as he comprehended what Sherlock said. He offered him a small smile, but it was strained. If Sherlock noticed—he probably did—he didn’t pry.

John cleared his throat and opened his mouth, but he couldn’t form a word. His face reddened and looked away again. Sherlock remained quiet. John bit his lip and thought how to ask what he wanted to know when he couldn’t speak.

But then Sherlock cleared his throat, getting John’s attention.

“I…” Sherlock suddenly withdrew his hands, and seemed shyer. “I wish I had been here. When you woke up,” he clarified. “I was with Victor.”

John was suddenly grateful Sherlock could deduce. But as he tried processing what Sherlock told him, he couldn’t, and clearly expressed his confusion on his face, in which only caused Sherlock to match his expression.

“You do remember him, don’t you?”

John shook his head immediately. Sherlock tensed slightly, and seemed even more reluctant as he explained.

“We, er, um…” Sherlock stuttered. John decided to relax and nod, somewhat understanding. He tried to make a noise, something sounding like “together”, but he ended up only pronouncing and elongating the o and the r. He blushed, and looked away, but Sherlock seemed to understand, and nodded.

“Partners, however you want to call it. Dating is dull, but we had years ago—.”

John’s eyes widened again.

Sherlock swallowed tightly. “We met in university, and parted on good terms. Then we ran into each other several months ago, and…” Sherlock trailed off, seemingly hesitant to continue. John squeezed his hand weakly, hoping to convey that he wanted Sherlock to continue. Sherlock nodded firmly.

“You and I had a fight about him, that night,” Sherlock explained. “You headed back to the flat and I stayed with him, when you were attacked. The burglars were in our flat.”

Sherlock’s voice hitched and he squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “I found them,” he said firmly. John weakly squeezed Sherlock’s hand, urging to give some comfort. He had so many questions, but knew he was going to be asleep very soon. He parted his mouth, urging himself to speak.

“Alrigh—?” John knew it was more of a sigh, and definitely slurred, and not pronounced completely, but he could also tell the sigh managed to sound like a question. Sherlock nodded in understanding.

John grinned softly, and then closed his eyes, falling asleep a few moments later.


	2. Day 2-5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the comments for the prequel! They were really nice and honestly helped me get back into a writing pace. :)
> 
> Here's chapter 2. As the fic goes on, the chapters should get longer :)
> 
> (Some days I skip, otherwise it would be longer and a lot more repetitive. I do mention the days where there aren't actual scenes. if you have questions, feel free to ask.)

**Day 2**

As the hours passed, John could barely stay awake for an hour, and he would sleep for many hours in between. Sherlock did most of the talking—well, all of it. John hadn’t been able to speak yet, but he could understand what was said, and could answer with a nod or a shake.

Sporadically, the nurses had him practice sitting up in bed, shortening his awareness by half. By the end of the first full day since waking up, he managed to sit up for thirty minutes. John started to feel optimistic, and lied back down with a small grin.

A dull pain shot through his back, and he winced. He looked at Sherlock, who was already furrowing his brows in concern. John thought for a moment, wondering how to ask. He couldn’t hold a pencil long enough to write, although the doctors were optimistic that that would improve by next week.

Sherlock seemed to have missed John’s questioning gaze, and instead directed his attention towards the door as it opened. A tall man entered the room. He looked familiar, but John couldn’t place him. He was taller than Sherlock, wearing a dark tailored suit and tie, a light grey shirt underneath that complimented his dark skin. He was practically bald, and his eyes were a light brown against the fluorescent lights. He was carrying a bouquet of yellow flowers. He smiled at John genuinely, and then looked at Sherlock, nodding in acknowledgment.

“Victor,” Sherlock greeted. John couldn’t tell if the greeting was warm or not, but didn’t think it mattered; they were together apparently. John felt something odd flutter in his abdomen, but he quickly pushed it aside and looked at the flowers as the man—Victor—set them down on the bedside table.

“Just some poppies,” he stated with a warm tone. “There’s not much of a selection here.”

John nodded his gratitude but furrowed his brows. He looked at Sherlock, and parted his mouth, but he quickly realized he couldn’t remember the word. He hummed with annoyance and furrowed his eyebrows tighter. Sherlock looked at him sympathetically, but didn’t say anything right way, giving John time to prepare his thoughts and actions, and therefore not making the situation anymore embarrassing than it was for John.

John sighed aggravated and managed to lift his hand and twirled is finger around the room. Sherlock’s face softened with realization.

“We’re at a small, private hospital, in Sussex.”

John’s eyes widened at the randomness of where he was. He furrowed his brows again, and Sherlock seemed to have understood why.

“Mycroft,” he explained in a slight annoyed tone. John nodded and then the two of them fell quiet.

“Dinner at 7?” Victor spoke up, directing his gaze to Sherlock.

Sherlock tightened his jaw, and just as John looked back at Victor, Victor nodded, looking understanding.

“We’ll reschedule. I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, and John looked at him, widening his eyes slightly. _Did Sherlock change his plans for me? That’s a first. But I don’t need a babysitter though…I’ll sleep anyway…_

John looked at Sherlock and tried to get his attention, but he was indeed starting to fall asleep, typical, he knew, of his condition.

John hummed slightly, but it didn’t get Sherlock’s attention, who at some point, had moved closer to Victor and was leading him out of the room. Before John could try again, Victor kissed Sherlock on the cheek, and then left. A blush rose on Sherlock’s face, and he walked back to his seat, not meeting John’s eyes.

John sighed with annoyance, and then fell asleep, feeling the slight presence of a hand lying beside his, lacking contact.

*            *            *

Day 4

John was resting against the bed at a moderate angle, not completely upright, but enough to see everything around him. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a cup of applesauce.

“You sure about this, John?” Sherlock asked as he prepared a tiny bite.

John nodded. He couldn’t lift his arms well enough to feed himself; his right arm was better, but his left wasn’t, and it was his dominant hand. The doctors were concerned he would have trouble eating, but he had managed to swallow water without choking. He had been very nauseous yesterday, which on top of the exhaustion and near constant sleep, John had been irritated and withdrawn. But now his appetite was starting to return. If he could swallow without choking, they wouldn’t have to put in a feeding tube, which John definitely didn’t want.

Sherlock held the spoon in front of John, who opened his mouth and took the bite. It was just a small amount, but John coughed as it entered his mouth, dribbling a little bit on his lips. Sherlock straightened up and started to reach forward, but John managed to shake his head. Sherlock remained still as John thought hard about swallowing. It took him a couple of seconds, and then he managed to swallow smoothly.

He sighed softly and looked at the cup, signally for more. Sherlock obliged, and continued to feed him. John ate the entire cup of applesauce smoothly, and by the time he was done, he was on the verge of another long nap.

John winced as Sherlock lowered the bed for him. The room spun slightly and his vision blurred. Something didn’t feel right. John urged himself to stay awake, and managed to focus on Sherlock, who was by his bed, tucking him in. John slid his arm heavily against the blanket, and reached for Sherlock’s wrist.

Sherlock looked at him, and slowly his brows furrowed. John’s vision blurred again, and then his body stiffened and started to jerk.

“John!”

In front of Sherlock, John’s body began to jerk uncontrollably. His eyes fluttered shut and his head lolled to the side. He choked and groaned, and scrunched his face up in pain. Sherlock quickly pressed the nurse’s call button. He lowered the bed completely and then turned John onto his side.

The jerking lasted for nearly a minute, and then slowly came to a stop. The nurse, Vanessa, hurried in, and went to the other side of the bed. She helped turn him back over onto his back, and then checked his vitals.

“He had a seizure…” Sherlock quietly said as the shock started to take effect.

Vanessa nodded sympathetically. “We had reduced the preventive medication, but we may have to go back to giving him some.”

“Why did you reduce it?” Sherlock asked with a hint of demand in his tone.

Her voice remained calm. “It can act like a sedative, and make him a lot more drowsy then he would like to be. It was a call we made. Hopefully, he won’t have another seizure, and can be taken off the medication after a while. I’ll run it by the doctor, and then we’ll give some to him.”

Sherlock processed this, and nodded. John whimpered underneath his touch, and shifted slightly. Sherlock placed the nasal cannula under his nose and then pulled the blanket up over his chest.

John remained asleep for only a few minutes, and then he flinched awake. He tried to raise his head, but winced, and settled against the pillow. He opened his eyes slightly and raised an eyebrow. He opened his mouth, but only formed a short sigh, and then he closed it shut, clenching his jaw as he did.

Sherlock looked at him from where he was still standing. John looked vulnerable from this far away. He looked smaller in the bed, but he was indeed skinnier and had lost weight, and wouldn’t be gaining a lot any time soon. He was pale yet his cheeks were slightly flushed. A slight tremble ran through his body, but Sherlock couldn’t tell if it was just from the cool temperature or something else. His eyes were parted slightly, drooping with exhaustion.

“You had a seizure,” Sherlock answered his unspoken question. “It didn’t last long, and the doctors may put you back on the medication.”

John shook his head stiffly as his eyes continued to close, but he kept blinking rapidly, as if willing himself to stay awake. He parted his mouth again, but didn’t form a word. He clenched his fists and turned his head back and forth in a long shake.

Sherlock softened his expression and stepped forward. John looked away and closed his eyes, telling Sherlock he didn’t want to “talk” anymore.

“It’ll just be temporary,” Sherlock assured.

John sighed. “Nnnn…” he trailed off, frustrated. He shook his head once more, and then looked away. Sherlock sighed, and then sat down, the storm outside encasing the room.

*            *            *

Day 5

John woke up earlier than usual to find his room empty. Usually, Sherlock was always by his side when he woke up. Now, it seemed eerie; even if it had been only five days, it had started to feel like routine.

John sighed and looked out the window to the hall. There were only a few nurses walking by, otherwise, it was deserted. He looked out the other window on his left; it was gloomy outside.

John sighed again, feeling a tingle of boredom starting to grow. He didn’t want to sleep more than he needed to. His breakfast wouldn’t arrive for an hour at least, but even by then, John doubted he would be hungry.

There was a faint knock on his door, and as it opened, John turned to face them, his hopes rising. Victor appeared through the door, and slowly walked in, his face beaming. John swallowed down the disappointment, and gave him a small grin.

“John,” Victor greeted. “How are you doing this morning?”

John shrugged, still unable to find his voice. He continued to smile, softening the uncertainty of his well-being. Victor smiled back and patted his shoulder without hesitation.

“Good to hear. Sherlock got some rest back at the hotel, though he should be on his way here now.”

John’s grin faltered slightly, but Victor didn’t seem to notice. John nodded in comprehension. He was starting to feel awkward, partially because he couldn’t keep the conversation going and also because he was starting to feel unease about Victor. From first impression, he seemed fine. But John couldn’t remember if he knew how Sherlock had known him in university, or even if he was told at all.

“John?”

John blinked and looked at Victor, whose brows were furrowed slightly.

“You okay there?”

John cleared his throat and nodded. He must have dazed out for a moment. He grinned reassuringly, hoping he looked apologetic. Victor seemed to take his expression for his word, for he smiled, and continued.

“I was just saying, Sherlock seems much better, now that you’re awake.”

John tensed slightly; unsure what to imagine what Sherlock was going through during the past three months.

“I’m sure you can imagine,” Victor added.

John nodded, however still tensely. For a second he hoped it wasn’t obvious, but Victor’s furrowed brow said otherwise.

John nodded roughly to ensure he was fine, but then inhaled sharply. He looked down to see his left hand trembling in his lap. He tried to curl his fists, but pain shot through his arm, sending spasm up his arm and down his back. He opened his eyes—he didn’t realize he had closed them—and saw Victor reaching behind his bed.

John felt Victor place an oxygen mask over his mouth and secure it, and then he lowered his bed slightly. John’s vision blurred and he couldn’t tell what Victor was murmuring. The next thing he saw was Sherlock’s head look down on him from the other side.

John slowly got his breath back, and the spasms abruptly settled. John inhaled deeply and focused on the men in front of him. Sherlock was hovering close to his bed, his hands on the bed a few inches away from John’s hand. His bed shifted upwards, and he looked to his right to see Victor moving it back in place.

John cleared his throat and raised his hand to take the mask off, but then Sherlock took his wrist and pulled it away.

"Keep it on for now,” Sherlock said.

John furrowed his brows and looked at Victor.

“Just a partial seizure,” Victor informed. “One of the nurses was just here. She said you probably haven’t had a dose of the preventive medication yet—.”

“He never got one,” Sherlock interrupted. “He didn’t want it.”

He looked at John with a slight accusing expression. John shrugged and leaned further against the pillow, fatigue kicking in again. He inhaled deeply, but then winced, finding it harder to breath again. Sherlock and Victor straightened up and towered over him. John found it suffocating, so he lifted his right hand to the handle hanging above of him. He managed to grasp it and pull, but then gentle hands were pressing down on his shoulders.

“Just rest—,” Sherlock urged.

John huffed and shook his head. He tried to move his left hand, but it felt heavy and wouldn’t move, due to the atrophied muscles, but John illogically jumped to a conclusion, and panicked. He tried to move his tongue against his mouth, attempting to express what he wanted to say—he just wanted to get out of here for a moment—but Sherlock and Victor continued to push him back against the bed.

John groaned and tried to push against them, but the exhaustion increased and his vision started to blur.

_No—let me—please, let me—_

John sighed aggravated. He couldn’t even form his thoughts coherently enough to think what he wanted. John let out a sighed that sounded like a whimper, and he started to lean with them, but then he quickly leaned forward just as their grip slackened. He managed to sit up, but then the room spun and his head and back throbbed.

“John—!”

John moaned as the pain increased, and he felt hands attempt to pull him back down to the bed. John winced as he settled against the bed, failing to stop them. He scrunched his eyes closed and inhaled through his nose; he wanted to lash out, he wanted to scream—he wanted to feel fresh air against his face and he wanted to laugh and he wanted to feel a dose of adrenaline coursing through his veins as he ran through alleyways, with Sherlock right in front of him—he wanted to _feel_ like himself.

He blinked up to see Victor whispering to Sherlock. He focused, and managed to catch a few phrases as he caught his breath back.

“…Give him some space.”

“He doesn’t need space,” Sherlock claimed as he held John’s hand. Victor went around to him and gently parted their hands. He met John’s eye briefly before looking at Sherlock.

“He’ll sleep for a bit. You only slept a little last night, and you haven’t eaten yet—.”

“I don’t need to eat right now, Victor,” Sherlock said fiercely. Despite his glare, Victor only nodded and started to lead Sherlock towards the door, his arm around his waist. John’s eyes widened as he saw Sherlock lean into Victor and slowly sigh.

John tried to sit up, but he didn’t have the strength. He rolled his tongue against his mouth, searching for the right sound. He hummed urgently, but Victor and Sherlock continued heading to the door.

_Shh—no, wait—_

“Sher—” John choked. Sherlock whipped around and hurried forward, stopping just beside the edge of the bed.

“John?”

John swallowed tightly and focused on the sound he just made. He hummed to himself, and pressed his lips together as he tried to remember the formation. After several attempts however, John could only hum deeply in his throat. He sighed with aggravation and turned his head away from Sherlock, his cheeks burning.

He faintly felt Sherlock’s hand run through his hair, so he slowly turned to face him. Sherlock met his eyes, and they stared at each other for a few seconds. John’s gaze trailed down from Sherlock’s eyes to a faint mark on his neck. It took John a few seconds to realize what it was, and his cheeks reddened even more. He swallowed tightly and turned his head away abruptly. Sherlock withdrew his hand and took a step back.

“I’ll come by later, John,” Sherlock said assuringly. John didn’t respond, and squeezed his eyes closed as they started to sting. He heard Sherlock walk away, and then the door closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are encouraging ^.^
> 
> for updates, hints, discussions, and if you have questions/concerns: watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com
> 
> Next chapter will be hopefully next week.


	3. Day 6-7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (General) Velar Sounds: K, G, "ng" like ring
> 
> Enjoy :)

**Day 6**

Vanessa set down the tray of food onto the table, and then left with an assuring smile. John grinned back tightly, and then dropped it right as the door closed.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, looking at John, who avoided his gaze.

“Not hungry still?”

John shook his head, and leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes as if he was about to go to sleep.

“You just woke up,” Sherlock pointed out softly.

John opened his eyes and looked at the wall in front of him. Sherlock’s voice was not what it was supposed to be. John had even (for a moment) expected Sherlock to boss him around into eating, going on about the extensiveness of a food tube, but he didn’t do any of that. Instead, Sherlock hovered, barely touched him unless he needed help, and spoke in that coddling tone of voice.

John sighed and turned his head away from Sherlock, directing his gaze to the floor. He heard Sherlock sigh, and then stand up, starting to pace. Now that was more like it.

He heard Sherlock hover by the table, and then moving the food items around. He heard one of them being opened, and then chewing. Confused, John turned towards him to see Sherlock eating one of his fruit cups.

John gaped and stared; Sherlock began eating bigger bites, and seemed to purposely not look at John. Annoyed but starting to become slightly amused by this, John raised his hand to take the cup away, but he only managed to lift it up for a second before it fell back to the bed.

All promising amusement vanished, and his face fell. Sherlock stilled, and looked from John’s hand to his face. He put down the fruit cup, and took a spoon. He prepared a small serving, and then held it up to John’s mouth, his expression serious and straight-faced.

“Choo choo.”

John sniggered abruptly, and then clamped his mouth shut, taken aback by the sound. The snigger had vibrated through his body. It was familiar and addictive, causing John to smile again, slower but growing.

Sherlock smiled back, his eyes genuinely beaming. John smiled wider, feeling suddenly lighter than he had all week. It was reassuring; he hesitated in letting it fall, but his appetite slowly started to return, so he opened his mouth and took the bite, swallowing it smoothly.

After he finished the cup of fruit, John fell into a light doze, and was woken up by the sound of quiet talking.

John looked in front of him; Victor and Sherlock were talking with Mandy, the physical therapist. Mandy eyes flickered to John, and she softened her expression.

“Good afternoon, John. I understand you had a partial seizure yesterday.”

John nodded tensely.

“Do you want to sit up,” she asked. “We didn’t do much yesterday, but we have time today, before you’re appointment with Dr. Bailey

John furrowed his eyebrows. Mandy smiled reassuringly.

“He’s a psychologist. Just part of protocol.”

John clenched his jaw and gave her a stiff nod.

“You also spoke yesterday,” Mandy pointed out. John shrugged; he hadn’t been able to say anything since, just elongated vowel sounds, no actual words. Melody lowered the railing by his bed, and then unhooked him from a few of the machines.

A nurse walked in, and went to his other side.

“Hello, John. I’m Vanessa by the way.”

John nodded in acknowledgement, knowing who she was anyway. She was odd in a way, yet her voice was soft, unlike Mandy who had a high-pitched voice and was always cheerful. Vanessa was calmer and almost withdrawn, but still attentive.

Vanessa lowered the other railing, and then removed the blanket from John’s chest. He was only wearing the hospital gown, and he hadn’t had a sponge bath in a few days, so there were stains over it and he felt dirtier with this many people in the room. John glanced at Sherlock and Victor, and then looked away.

“Would you like privacy, John?” Vanessa asked.

John nodded, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.

“John—,” Sherlock started, but John saw Victor press his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and started to lead him out. Sherlock didn’t protest.

John swallowed tightly against the sudden lump in his throat, and looked at Mandy, signally he was ready.

“All right, John. Just take the handle above you, and we’ll help you lift yourself. This still may feel uncomfortable.”

John nodded, and raised his right hand and grabbed the metal bar. He felt like he was behind in his recovery, and so he told himself to work harder; he could feel a sense of something dark lurking in the back of his mind, and quickly blocked it out.

John lifted himself forward until he was completely upright, wincing slightly. It hurt, but he didn’t want it to show. Vanessa held him up as his grip slackened off the bar, and he rested his arm in his lap. His left arm rested beside him, feeling heavy.

“Can you reach for the cup of water?” Mandy asked. John reached for it with his right hand and did so.

“How about your left?”

John looked at his limp arm, and thought hard. It shifted and he managed to lift it slightly, but as it grazed the table, it fell into his lap. John bit his lip and looked at Mandy.

She smiled assuringly and then placed a pencil and piece of paper on the desk.

“Can you try holding the pencil?”

John nodded and focused; he raised his right hand and held it steady for several seconds, before his hand trembled and he let it go.

“How about if I place your left arm on the table, could you hold the pencil?” Mandy asked.

John shrugged. Mandy placed his arm on the table, and gave him the pencil. He wrapped his fist around it, but his hand started to cramp quickly.

“Here,” Mandy removed the pencil and placed it in his right hand. “Could you try to write something in this hand?”

John’s eyes widened and he shook his head. He nodded to his left hand, hoping to express what he thought.

Mandy narrowed her eyes in confusion. “Can you wrap your fingers around it?”

John shook his head and nodded to his left hand. Mandy still remained confused. John sighed and parted his mouth.

“I’m…” John sighed and looked at the wall in front of them. “Naw…and—no—rrr—”

Mandy’s face softened. “Oh, you’re left handed. It’s all right. Let’s try that hand.”

John raised his left hand a few inches off the blanket, but he couldn’t hold it for more than a few seconds before he dropped it back into his lap. Mandy smiled assuringly and put the pencil away. John’s back started to ache, so he tried to lean back, but then Vanessa’s hold strengthened.

“Not just yet, John,” she said gently.

John huffed.

“Can you try to speak, John?” Mandy asked. “Normally, you’d talk to a speech therapist, but let’s just see for now.”

John focused on her, thinking she was trying to distract him from the increasing pain.

“Mmm, e-s,” John managed. Mandy nodded encouragingly.

“Let’s try the “ah” sound.”

John opened his mouth and tried to voice the sound. His throat felt weird, and the sound came out elongated, but Mandy’s eyes brightened, which must mean it was a good try.

“Good. How about ‘be’?”

John hummed to himself. “Mmm—me—be.” It didn’t sound like him; John bit his lip to keep himself calm.

“C?” Mandy asked.

John moved his tongue in his mouth as he tried to find the familiar position. “Th-see—?”

“Good!”

John continued going through the alphabet, struggling with the velar sounds but overall, he was starting to feel proud of himself. As the women left, Sherlock walked in. As John got comfortable against the bed, he smiled slightly at him, only to have it fall into a tight smile as Victor followed him into the room.

“They said you tried speaking,” Sherlock pointed out. “Any luck?”

John nodded and shrugged. He tried to think of the correct word, but came up blank. He shrugged again, and offered a small smile.

Sherlock nodded in understanding and smiled.

“You can rest. We’ll be quiet.”

John nodded gratefully, but then Victor spoke up.

“Let’s give him some privacy,” Victor offered. He looked at John kindly. “We’ll just get some lunch—.”

“We just got here. And, I don’t need lunch—,” Sherlock started.

“Yes, you do,” Victor replied with a smirk. He nodded towards John. “He’ll come by later, won’t you?”

Sherlock looked at John; his expression was odd, but after a couple of seconds, he nodded.

“I will. In an hour at the most.”

John nodded tensely, silently wishing Sherlock would stay. As the room was encased with silence, John sighed and closed his eyes. He didn’t get much rest however, when a couple of hours later, a man walked in.

John yawned and shifted his bed up to greet him. The small man shook his right hand, and then sat down in Sherlock’s chair.

“I’m Dr. Bailey. Now, this is just protocol, and I understand you haven’t relearned how to speak yet…”

John furrowed his eyebrows to himself, unsure about that phrase. He knew how to speak; he just forgot the technicalities.

“…And so all you have to do is nod or shake your head; use your expressions. Do you think you can do that?”

John nodded.

“Good,” Dr. Bailey said with an overly grand smile. “Now, how are you feeling today?”

John nodded and kept his face soft. Dr. Bailey narrowed his eyes, however he still appeared cheerful.

“Just okay?”

John nodded.

“Anything bothering you?”

John started to nod, but then a thought cut if off. He blinked and continued to nod, but by the doctor’s face, it wasn’t convincing.

“I understand you only have your friend visiting you, and usually with his partner. Do you have anyone else? The more support, the better.”

John shrugged and shook his head. “Hmm, sss-i—.”

“Sister?”

John nodded and shrugged again. Dr. Bailey didn’t pry.

“Any bad thoughts?”

John stared at him, stunned for a moment. Dr. Bailey smiled gently.

“Just a formality. And it makes it easier if you were honest.”

John furrowed his brows, and then slowly shook his head. Dr. Bailey seemed to leave it at that for now.

For the rest of the hour, John nodded most of the time, answering questions about how he felt like he was doing, how he was being treated, and if he had any concerns. John just shook his head to that question, not knowing if he did and not knowing how he would express them even if he did—which he didn’t, as he kept telling himself. Dr. Bailey left; assuring him he would make weekly visits at least, and sporadic ones in between.

John sighed against the bed and looked at the handle hanging above him. He reached for it and pulled himself up. He had realized sitting up made it was easier to breath. He inhaled deeply and sighed again. He looked to the side, noticing the railing was still down. John prepared to move his legs closer to the edge, just to see what would happen.

But his nerves tingled suddenly, and he paused. Realizing he didn’t know what he was doing and that he was just bored, John sighed tiredly and repositioned himself. He lied against the bed and looked up at the ceiling. As he fell asleep, he realized Sherlock hadn’t returned.

*            *            *

Day 7

John sat tensely on the edge of the bed, his head hanging down.

“Let’s try to stand up, shall we?” Vanessa asked. Mandy was beside her and she gently gripped John by the shoulders and attempted to lift him upwards, but John remained firmly in his seat.

He let out an annoyed huff, and shook his head. The room was spinning even with his head lowered, and he was exhausted. However, his annoyance only increased, when the two women didn’t allow him to lie back down.

“Just for thirty seconds, John. You can do it,” Mandy said.

John shook his head, just as the door opened. John glanced up weakly and saw Sherlock step in.

“Everything all right?” he asked as he hovered in front of John. He hadn’t visited since he left yesterday for lunch. John glared at him weakly and looked away, noticing he was freshly dressed and showered, clearly meaning he hadn’t been sidetracked by a case. That would have been preferable. Although, John was slightly grateful he wasn’t here earlier; sitting up and getting to the edge of the bed had been rough.

“We want to see if he can stand up,” Mandy explained. John lowered his head and shuddered. He was still wearing a hospital gown, and the lowered temperature was starting to get to him. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, and hunched his shoulders, suddenly feeling unexplainably ashamed.

Sherlock walked closer. “Let him rest,” he offered quietly. The two women seemed to have thought for a moment, but then they nodded, and gently helped John back into bed. He lied against the pillow and closed his eyes, his body shivering from the cold and pain.

As the women left, Sherlock stepped to the bed and placed a bag on the table. John could hear him taking something out, and then he felt something soft being placed over his body and by his arms. He looked up and saw Sherlock grinning softly as he arranged the blanket and the union jack pillow. John recognized the blanket; it was his from the flat, a pine-coloredknitted blanket his grandmother had made years ago. He gave Sherlock a strained but genuine smile, and nodded his thanks. Sherlock nodded, and then tilted his head towards the bag.

“I also had Mrs. Hudson send some jumpers and pajamas. So whenever you’re up for it, you can change. You still have the catheter though, so it’ll have to be adjusted.” Sherlock’s cheeks reddened and looked away.

John nodded again and smiled tightly. He exhaled slowly, and then looked out the window. He could sense Sherlock hovering by his side.

John turned and looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock shuffled his feet. “Do you want to change? I understand you haven’t had a wash in a while.”

John nodded, suddenly appreciative. Sherlock walked towards the door.

“I can get the nurse, unless you’d want a male nurse—.”

John hummed, causing Sherlock to pause and look at him. John blushed and bit his lip. He looked down his body and then back at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow in questioning.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and his cheeks also reddened.

“I’m not sure what you’re asking, John,” Sherlock said slowly. John was momentarily surprised, and then swallowed tightly and focused on his tongue. He pressed his lips together and then released them.

“Ooh—y-ooh—,” John stuttered and inhaled sharply. He saw Sherlock’s eyes widen, and then he slowly nodded.

“Sure. Alright.”

Sherlock removed his coat and hovered to his bed. He thought for a moment, and then entered the bathroom in front of them. It was only blocked by a curtain, and had a shower stall, sink, and toilet. John hadn’t been in there yet, but it didn’t look very intriguing; of course, it would be better than a sponge bath.

Sherlock came back with a bowl of water and a washcloth. He set it aside, and then retrieved another bowl, a couple of towels, soap, and fresh clothes. He set the supplies on the table, and then looked at John, his face hesitant.

“I need to put the towel underneath you,” Sherlock said. John nodded, and then lowered his bed until it was about a one hundred and sixty degree angle. He tried to turn on his side, but then he paused. He looked at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock stared at him, and then said, “oh.”

Sherlock helped turn John on his side, and then held him still as he placed the towel on the bed. He placed another one against John’s pillow, and then helped John back in place. He removed the blankets and then reached for John’s gown and untied it. Sherlock removed it, and pulled it just down to his hips.

John kept his gaze beyond Sherlock’s head. Sherlock met his gaze for a moment.

“Ready?”

John nodded and looked away. Warm water trailed down his chest, and he flickered his eyes to Sherlock’s hand and his chest.

He wasn’t expecting what he saw.

Besides the scar on his left shoulder, there was a surgical one near the center of his abdomen below his left pectoral and it trailed down just before his naval. There were smaller scars, likely from the glass, which scattered across his chest. Most were pink and fairly healed, others slightly darker. John trailed his fingers across one that traveled from below his right pectoral to the middle of his abdomen. It was the longest one, and the thinnest. Others were short yet thicker, and most were clearly thick enough for stitches.

John swallowed tightly. Sherlock started to wet his skin, starting at his right shoulder.

“It could have be worse,” Sherlock pointed out softly. John looked up and nodded stiffly. He inhaled shakily and leaned against the pillow, trembling slightly from the cool air.

“I should have turned the heat up,” Sherlock whispered.

John shook his head reassuringly, however he still trembled. Sherlock continued to wet the skin, and then he lathered the cloth and began cleaning him, trailing down to his chest and hips.

“I’ll have to do your legs,” Sherlock said.

John nodded and looked at the ceiling, his cheeks starting to redden.

Sherlock spun the table to the other side, and removed the blanket. He placed one over John’s the hospital gown that was over his hips, and then started to wet and wash his right leg. As Sherlock patted him dry, he looked up; John briefly met his gaze before looking away.

“Later, I can shave you, if you want.”

John was startled, his eyes widened slightly. Sherlock froze and kept his gaze on John’s leg.

“I mean your face,” Sherlock muttered. His cheeks reddened, and John blushed too. He managed a stiff nod and let Sherlock continue drying him off. Once he was done with the right side, Sherlock placed a blanket over him. John started to warm up, but still trembled as Sherlock cleaned his left side.

As Sherlock came to a finish, he removed the blankets, and then paused suddenly.

“Below the hips…” he trailed off and looked away. John’s cheeks only continued to redden, however possible. He sighed and slid his hand to the gown, pulling it away.

“Mhm…ff-eye—n,” John managed after thinking of the correct word. After a moment, Sherlock quickly but thoroughly cleaned the area before placing a blanket over him.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “You still have the catheter in. Pajama bottoms might not work.” He looked at John.

John nodded. “Mhm…”

“Pants,” Sherlock said for him. John nodded.

Sherlock retrieved them. John reached for the metal bar and lifted himself up, but quickly started to fall back. Sherlock wrapped his arm around his lower back and helped him into a sitting position. He helped him turn to the side until he was sitting on the edge. It took a little bit of maneuvering with the catheter, but he managed to help John put the pants on, and then he grabbed a thin jumper.

“This fine?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded. Sherlock pulled the shirt over John’s head, and helped get it in place. He grabbed some socks and placed them on John’s feet. He then stood up and sighed.

“Good?” he said quietly.

John nodded, although he was exhausted. He met Sherlock’s gaze for a moment before looking down at the floor.

He watched Sherlock shuffle his feet; he was unsure about something—hesitant, nervous? John sighed and prepared to lie back down, when Sherlock gently cupped his jaw and cheek and tilted it upwards.

John met Sherlock’s eyes and inhaled sharply. Sherlock’s eyes were glistening, but not with tears. He looked deeply concerned, almost troubled, though John couldn’t figure out why. John swallowed tightly, yet he leaned slightly into the touch.

Sherlock moved his thumb slightly, and then unexpectedly, he leaned forward. John could feel Sherlock’s breath against his lips. He tilted his head and leaned forward slightly, but then Sherlock pulled away and took a few steps back, severing their contact. He turned around and ran his hand through his hair as he sighed loudly. John stared at him, and then inhaled sharply, not realizing he hadn’t taken a breath. He exhaled slowly, and parted his mouth. But all he could form this time was a sigh. John swallowed tightly, momentarily forgetting that he couldn’t speak properly. He sighed, and hummed instead for Sherlock’s attention, but Sherlock didn’t face him.

After a few seconds, Sherlock straightened his back. “I’m with Victor,” he whispered. John was sure he wasn’t expecting an answer. John hummed in his throat again. He let out a shaky groan, and then managed a very quiet whisper, sounding like, “why?”

Sherlock turned around abruptly and stared at him. “He chose me,” Sherlock said, and then clenched his mouth closed, his face flickering with sudden uncertainty.

Despite the circumstances, John’s blood boiled. _He won’t let that go, will he?_

John clenched his fists and looked away with a glare to the floor. He inhaled sharply and looked at his bed. He scooted away from the edge, and stiffly managed to pull his legs up with his right hand back onto the bed. He pulled the blankets over himself and lied down, turning his head away from Sherlock, who hadn’t said another word.

He heard Sherlock sigh, and then started putting the bath supplies away. John swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat, his skin feeling itchy and his face too, the thick stubble getting on his nerves.

“I can still shave for you,” Sherlock whispered from afar.

John shook his head.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock said.

John hummed tensely. He could feel Sherlock hovering.

“It’s bothering you.”

John shrugged and turned further away from him, but he was unable to turn onto his side, so his neck was starting to strain.

“I don’t mind—.”

John shook his head roughly and squeezed his eyes shut.

“John—”

“Nn-N-oh!”

Relief flooded John, quickly followed by a gasp and a sore throat. The word felt odd in his mouth—it was elongated and a little high—and it sounded off. John exhaled slowly and refused to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed and shuffled his feet. John could practically hear him debating what to do in his head.

“Do you want me to leave?” Sherlock asked, his voice tenser with agitation.

John didn’t respond.

The atmosphere seemed to deflate as Sherlock, very slowly, left the room. John turned his head just in time to see his back and the door closing. He turned his head to face in front of him, and then squirmed against the bed, not finding a comfortable position.

John barely slept that night.

*            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

_John followed after Sherlock as they left the restaurant. He caught up to him and walked by his side, continuing their conversation._

_“I just want to know more about him. You never seemed interested in dating before—hell, I didn’t even know you ever had.” John grinned at him, although it was strained._

_“There’s not much history, John,” Sherlock replied. “Victor and I had met in university. It was short, it didn’t even last a full year.”_

_John nodded in comprehension, yet continued as he walked up the stairs. “But you must have been close. How did it end? I mean, I assume it wasn’t on bad terms, since you’re going out with him again.”_

_Sherlock scoffed. “Please, John. We’re not ‘going out’.”_

_John raised his hands up in mocking surrender. “All right, fine. I just thought you were married to your work, that’s all.”_

_Sherlock stopped in his tracks and stared at him from behind. He quickly caught up to him, his temper rising._

_“And why does that matter?” Sherlock snapped._

_John turned towards him, furrowing his eyebrows. The streetlight was shadowing his face, and highlighting it in a soft glare. “I just want to understand, Sherlock,” he said slowly._

_“It’s none of your business,” Sherlock snapped again. John took a step back, looking affronted._

_“We’ve been friends for years, Sherlock. I thought, as your friend, I can ask about things like this.”_

_“Well, you can’t. You have your secrets, I have mine.”_

_John clenched his fists and scoffed. “You know damn well I can’t keep a secret from you, even if I tried. You’ll just figure it out one way or another.”_

_John was getting angry, and Sherlock couldn’t see why. It wasn’t going to be serious, him and Victor. Just a distraction—Sherlock thought he deserved that, going by what he had to go through when John got married. Sure, Mary was out of the picture now, but that didn’t mean John couldn’t date anyone, if he wanted to. And it wasn’t as if he was making any move on Sherlock, not that he expected it, so why couldn’t Sherlock try to move on, at least pretend to?_

_Sherlock rounded onto him, glaring. “Last time I checked, I can do whatever I please. I don’t need your approval.”_

_John gritted his teeth. “Damn right you don’t. You do whatever you want, leave whenever you feel like it without a fucking phone call.”_

_“Does that still bother you?” Sherlock asked, furrowing his brows. “You were in apparent domestic bliss, I thought it was kind not to bother you.”_

_John scoffed. “Since when has that stopped you? And for the record, I wasn’t in domestic bliss. Not that you ever asked. You just deduced—wrongly.”_

_Sherlock flinched; the way John said the last words was…harsh—the first time he’s referred to Sherlock’s ability with distaste…in a long time at least._

_Sherlock took a deep breath, and met John’s glare with his own. “Well, I’m asking now then. Is there anything you want to tell me, John?”_

_John took a step forward, and then back. His eyes flickered with anger and hurt. He sighed, and then took a few steps back._

_“No. No…” John turned around and walked away, picking up his pace as Sherlock called out to him. “It’s too fucking late,” he muttered to himself._

_“John!”_

_John turned the corner and then broke out into a run, reaching their flat quickly. As he walked up the seventeen steps, he felt heavily disappointed that Sherlock didn’t chase after him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, subscribe :)
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> check out my tumblr, watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com , for updates, and if you have any questions, concerns, etc, you can ask there too :)
> 
>  
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> (if you come across a "Chrissy" or a "Melody", they're supposed to be "Vanessa" and "Mandy".


	4. Day 8-11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, you should listen to this song ;) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbo6NH-3lzo

**Day 8**

John moved his bed into a more practical sitting position as Vanessa left, who had dropped off his breakfast. There was fruit, yogurt, and toast, but John doubted he’d be able to eat all of it. He reached for the fruit and started with the grapes. It was slow chewing and took a while for John to finish. As he swallowed the last grape, the door opened.

John turned to see Sherlock walking in, pausing, and then continuing, however with more hesitation in his steps and his eyes on anything except John. He paused again halfway between the door and John’s bed, and then slowly walked a few more steps before stopping.

“I thought you’d be sleeping,” Sherlock said softly.

John shook his head and looked at his food.

“Do you have physical therapy today?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded, and didn’t try bothering in explaining it would be later in the afternoon. Sherlock nodded, seeming to understand. John reached for the piece of paper that showed his speech practices, diverting Sherlock’s attention to it. Sherlock looked at it, and then nodded.

“You’ll be practicing to speak,” Sherlock realized. “It’ll be a relief, once you can talk.” He smiled tensely, and it quickly became awkward.

“I can help you,” Sherlock offered after a moment.

John swallowed his bite of toast and uncertainly nodded, pushing the table away. Sherlock sat in his chair, keeping his coat on and his back straight. He looked at the paper and then at John.

“Do you want to try sounds or the alphabet?”

John lied against the pillow and shrugged, uncertain about everything, it seemed. Sherlock seemed unsure too, but he continued anyway.

“Ah?” Sherlock asked?

John sounded it out silently, and then worked his tongue and throat, producing more of a sigh then an actual sound. Sherlock fidgeted in his seat.

“Es?”

It took a John a moment to voice the beginning part, and when he voiced the ‘sss’ part, it was elongated.

“Sh?”

John managed that sound without much difficulty. He cleared his throat and out of habit, scratched his chin. He felt Sherlock’s gaze on him, but he refused to meet it.

“I can still—.”

John shook his head abruptly and inhaled deeply. Sherlock fell silent for a moment.

“I?”

John sighed it rather than spoke it, but it was better.

“Can you try words?”

John nodded, although he wasn’t sure.

“Am?”

John sounded out the word, and slowly produced it, starting out as a sigh and ending with a vibrated m.

“Sorry?”

John stilled and finally turned his head to face him. Sherlock met his gaze for a brief second before looking back at the sheet. John cleared his throat, sounded out the sounds, and managed to breath quietly, “Rrr…ah-r—are…oh-y-ou?”

The r was elongated and the ‘you’ was focused on the u. He kept staring at Sherlock, waiting for him to respond. Sherlock was still looking at the paper, and then slowly looked and nodded.

John turned his head away and grazed his chin. “Sh—a—v?”

He glanced at Sherlock to see him nodding again, and then Sherlock sat up and retrieved the supplies. Vanessa walked in just as he removed his coat and started to place the shaving cream in his hand.

“Do you need any help?” she asked as she checked John’s vitals and removed the food tray.

Sherlock shook his head. “I can manage.”

Vanessa smiled and nodded. “Let me know if you have any trouble. The first time is always the hardest.” She left; silence encased the room.

John held his head as still as possible as Sherlock applied the cream. His touch was gentle, and as he started using the razor, his eyes were focused and he was careful. For a moment he wondered, why this was Sherlock’s first time, and since it seemed like it was, who had shaved him before?

John’s thought was interrupted with he felt a prick and then a flurry of movement.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled as he cleaned the area. John shrugged as much as he could, and let him get on with it.

Sherlock finished without another flinch, and cleaned John’s face thoroughly and applied the lotion afterwards. He put the supplies away, and then started to shuffle his feet again, unsure what to do.

John was nearly dozing, and he didn’t feel like doing anything else for a bit.

“You want to rest?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded. Sherlock nodded back and started to head to the door, putting his coat on.

“I can come by later, during your physical therapy.”

John nodded tiredly. As Sherlock continued to the door, John parted his mouth and sighed.

“Sher—.”

Sherlock turned around, raising an eyebrow. He waited as John sounded out the word in his mind.

“Sher-l-oh…” John paused, and sounded out the name again in his head.

“Sher-l-ock,” John finally said. He faintly smiled as Sherlock’s face brightened. Sherlock smiled back.

“Fanks—” John shook his head abruptly. “Th-ank-s,” he corrected.

Sherlock nodded again, his smile widening, and then slowly left.

*            *            *

Day 10

John sat on the edge of the bed, sounding out words in his head before speaking as Sherlock placed the socks back on his feet.

“Shave?” John asked smoothly.

Sherlock nodded, and retrieved the supplies. He helped John lie back down and then got started. As he finished, he applied the lotion, lingering slightly on John’s cheek and trailing his finger against his skin, feeling like a caress.

John blushed, but couldn’t respond in time as Sherlock moved away.

“Didn’t make a mistake this time,” Sherlock said with a small grin.

John grinned back, and then parted his mouth. “Sher-lock?” he said hesitantly.

Sherlock’s face softened and his eyes glistened. “Yes, John?”

John sounded out the words he had been practicing for the past couple of days. “Ooh—who…shaved m-e? Be-fore?”

Sherlock stared at him, and then lowered his gaze. He fiddled with the razor and then retreated to the bathroom, putting the supplies away. He came back, not meeting Johns’ eyes.

“The nurses did.”

John stared at him, expecting more. When nothing else came, John straightened up.

“Why?”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment before looking out the window. He didn’t say anything, and as John waited, he fell into a light doze before he could help it. When he woke up, he realized Sherlock never did respond.

*            *            *

Day 11

“Ready, John?” Sherlock asked.

John looked directly in Sherlock’s eyes, and nodded stiffly. Sherlock hands were holding John’s forearms, and John was holding Sherlock’s. He leaned forward, and Sherlock pulled him gently. Slowly, he slid off the edge of the bed, and felt the floor with his feet. He shivered; despite wearing pajama pants and socks, the floor was cold. He was momentarily relieved the catheter was removed. John held onto Sherlock tightly as he swayed, experiencing a slight episode of vertigo.

“Steady,” Sherlock murmured.

John focused, and slowly the room came into focus, however, he could feel exhaustion creeping in, as well as pain throbbing in his lower back and head. He creased his eyebrows and inhaled deeply through his nose.

“Can you take a step?” Mandy asked. John nodded and took one, but then lost his stamina. Sherlock held him up, and tried to hold him in place, but John continued forward. He managed two more full steps by dragging his feet slightly, and then he paused, breathing heavily.

“Let’s just stand for a bit, John,” Sherlock suggested. John hummed roughly and tried to focus. Mandy stood beside them, her arms at the ready in case John lost his stance. John tried to ignore her, and focused on Sherlock.

The door opened, catching John off guard. His eyes widened slightly as he saw Victor enter hesitantly, and then suddenly pain shot through his left leg, and he lost his balance with a grimace. He started to fall down, but then arms held him firmly and straightened him back up. Mandy and Sherlock gently guided him to the edge of the bed.

“S-so-r-yy,” John managed to mumble.

“No, it’s my fault,” Victor cut in gently. “I shouldn’t have barged in.”

“What do you need?” Sherlock asked. John inwardly cringed at his tone, but Victor seemed unfazed.

“I have a feeling you haven’t eaten today at least.”

Sherlock shook his head dismissively. “No, I’m—.”

John reached for him and tugged on his shirt. Sherlock turned to him, concern flickering in his eyes.

John nodded towards Victor. “G-o—.”

“But you have to eat too—,” Sherlock protested.

“His lunch isn’t for another hour. He’s already had a long morning,” Mandy pointed out. Sherlock seemed to tense for a moment, and then he relaxed.

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed. He retrieved his jacket and coat, and then headed to the door, where Victor held it open. He paused and looked back at John, but he didn’t say anything, and after a moment, he left.

Mandy helped John back into the bed, and then left too, and he was alone.

John managed to sleep for an hour, and then he was gently awoken to a nurse leaving his food on his table.

“Hungry?” she asked.

John shrugged. He actually wasn’t sure, but he didn’t feel nauseous, and had managed a little breakfast earlier.

“You don’t need to finish it. If you need any help, press the call button.” She left, and closed the door behind her. John reached for the yogurt first, and managed to pull the peel off, however his hands were shaking slightly. He still didn’t have complete control with his hands, especially his left one, but he could tell he was improving.

John managed to eat the yogurt and drink the juice, before he was feeling full. He pushed the table aside, and then sighed.

The door opened, and Dr. Bailey walked in. He took a seat in Sherlock’s chair and took out his notepad.

“How are you today, John?”

That was typical of him, asking how he was. It wasn’t even genuine—just clearly for the purpose of the session.

“G-ood,” John managed to whisper.

Dr. Bailey grinned, like usual. “Good. Now, we’ve talked about your recovery time. How do you think it’s going now?”

John nodded assuringly. “Good,” he said again.

Dr. Bailey raised an eyebrow. “Just good?”

John nodded.

“How are you handling it?”

John shrugged again. “Oh-ay.”

“How do you think your friend is doing? I understand he’s the only one visiting you.”

John furrowed his brows for a moment. He just realized no one else had visited; not Mrs. Hudson or Greg, still not even his sister. John looked at the psychiatrist and shrugged, again.

“Is Sherlock managing, do you think?”

John nodded.

“Any quarrels? That would be normal.”

John nodded again, finding this completely tedious.

“What about?”

The almost-kiss reappeared in John’s mind, and he quickly shoved it aside. He didn’t want to think about that, simply because he had no idea what it meant. He didn’t know what Sherlock was feeling, what he felt for him, and why he was still with Victor after all their awkwardness. But because of the difficulty with communication, John’s brief hours when he’s awake, and Sherlock’s habit of avoiding discussions about _feelings_ , they weren’t getting anywhere.

John shrugged again and looked around the room, hoping to express that everything was causing the tension.

Dr. Bailey didn’t seem satisfied with the lack of a response.

“It can be emotionally testing in situations like this. Understand that three months did pass, and people need comfort. Many couples go through breaks when one of them is in recovery—.”

John shook his head, about to correct him, but Dr. Bailey didn’t seem to notice, or he just ignored him.

“I can be confident enough that his…fling, so to speak, won’t last. Sherlock is in a tough position now that he has to choose, since now that you’re awake. I know from observation, while you were comatose, Sherlock started to doubt you’d wake up, and his visits shortened and became nearly rare. It’s perfectly normal to feel resentment towards him, but it’s vital on both parts to understand where the other one is coming from, and to work through the emotions just as thoroughly and cautious as physical therapy.”

 _What a talker_ , John thought bitterly. He had no idea what to think about first. Sherlock hadn’t visited him? That explains the shaving question, but how often did he visit? He didn’t just abandon him, right?

John sighed heavily and clenched his fists, feeling an overwhelming exhaustion wash over him. He needed to think; he needed quiet; he needed to talk to Sherlock but he couldn’t speak properly just yet—

John huffed. “T-ired—,” he mumbled.

“That’s fine. We still have half an hour left. Is there any—.’

“N-no. Go.” John said clipped.

“But we still—.”

John shook his head and closed his eyes.

Dr. Bailey softened his expression. “Are you having any bad thoughts, John?”

John squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He hadn’t even thought about that; he wasn’t even sure what was considered a bad thought.

Dr. Bailey sighed, and then stiffly stood up. “I’ll visit tomorrow, to continue this. Take it easy.”

He left, closing the door behind him. John exhaled slowly tried to think of something he could do to find out more. Sherlock wouldn’t talk; the nurses would just make it seem like everything was fine, or convince him to talk to Sherlock, which John would try, if there were a slight chance Sherlock would respond, which there wasn’t. There must be some kind of record—Victor might know, but John refused to think about asking him. There must be a camera, maybe Mycroft—no—maybe there was a sign-in sheet—yes, maybe, that would show something.                              

John fell into a light doze before he could come up with a plan, and slowly drifted off into a restless sleep.                

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments have been so heartwarming and encouraging. Thank you everyone who's left one. They really make my day! ^.^
> 
> Subscribe, comment, :) 
> 
> watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com


	5. Day 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a short chapter : )
> 
> I'm working the next 3 days, so I probably won't update until Sunday night, or Monday, unless there's a lot of comments then I'll aim for Saturday :)

**Day 13**

Much to John’s unease, Sherlock didn’t visit him until the following day. He muttered something about being caught up with something, but he didn’t divulge anything more and practically ignored John’s questioning look.

John sighed as he scooted closer to the edge of the bed.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded, and then slid off. He felt the floor against his feet, and leaned against Sherlock. Sherlock held onto the belt around John’s waist, and slowly led him to take a step. John fidgeted with the elbow crutches, finding them awkward. But if he wanted to walk around his room, he would have to wear them.

“Where do you want to go?” Sherlock asked.

John looked around. The room wasn’t that big, so the options were limited.

“Ch—hair?” John offered.

Sherlock hummed in response, and took a step. John took one, and very slowly made his way around his bed and to the chair. Sherlock helped him sit down, and he sighed with content as he did. It was wondrous to fell something under him other than a mattress. John grinned slightly and looked up at Sherlock to find him looking at him with something akin to fondness.

“Hm?” John breathed out softly.

Sherlock blinked and looked away.

“Nothing—.”

“Clear-rrr-ly…” John mumbled with a twitch in his grin.`

Sherlock softened his face, and then shrugged.

They fell into a some-what comfortable silence. John just started to drift off when Sherlock nudged him back to awareness.

“Back to bed? I don’t think you’d want to fall asleep in a chair.”

John laughed weakly and nodded. He lifted himself out of the chair and took a step before he could stabilize the crutches on the floor, and before Sherlock could grasp his belt. His leg crumbled beneath him and he fell onto the floor, catching himself on his knees and with his palms.

“John!”

John cringed at Sherlock’s sudden urgent tone, and bit his lip. He felt Sherlock touch his shoulders and could feel him peering at his face.

“All right?” Sherlock asked softly.

John nodded and inhaled sharply through his nose. Sherlock raised his hand, and John grabbed it. He was pulled back up on his feet, and then nearly dragged his feet against the floor as he limped heavily back around his bed.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waisted and helped him onto the bed. John scooted backwards and started to lie down, when his left hand started to tremble. John gasped softly and clenched his fists, dragging it across his lap to hide it. But Sherlock quickly took it in his hands before John could do so.

He looked up to see Sherlock looking at his hand. He gently started rubbing it—massaging the hand and palm, and then moving up his wrist and arm in circular motions. The trembles lessened, and John slowly started to relax.

John leaned up a bit before he could change his mind, and then raised his right hand and cupped Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock startled, and looked at him, his brows slightly furrowing.

John looked into his eyes, and then leaned forward.

“Sherlock?” a voice spoke from the side.

John stilled as Sherlock stood up from the bed and turned around. Victor was in the doorway, his coat still on, which meant he had only just arrived.

Sherlock silently went up to him. Victor looked at John for a long time, and then slowly removed his furrowed gaze to Sherlock. He rested his hand over Sherlock’s waist. John looked away, finding the simple affection touch oddly possessive. He couldn’t hear what Sherlock was whispering, but after a moment, Victor hummed and then left.

Sherlock hovered in place, and then quickly retrieved his coat.

“Victor insists I eat. He’s been trying to feed me up,” Sherlock said deeply with a strained smirk.

John grinned at him and nodded.

Sherlock grinned tightly and then headed to the door.

“Sher-lock?”

He turned around and looked at John, hope flickering in his eyes.

John bit his lip, lowered his gaze, and then raised it. “I’m too—I mean…” John paused. He was having trouble with remembering words, and sometimes his thoughts would trail off before he fully grasped them. He cleared his throat as he flickered his gaze to his arms, unsure exactly what he was going to mean. “It hurts…”

Sherlock furrowed his brows for a moment, and then his face relaxed.

“It’s normal. It’ll get better.”

John nodded, and Sherlock nodded back. He offered a small grin, and then left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, ask, subscribe :) 
> 
> watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com


	6. Day 16-18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has left comments! It means so much to me, and so I've decided to update earlier than I planned. I hope you enjoy :)

**Day 16**

“Just one more step,” Sherlock gently urged as he held onto the belt on John’s waist.

John shook his head and leaned heavily against the forearm crutches. “I c-can’t—.”

“Yes, you can.”

John groaned. His back and legs hurt and he felt a pang of nausea. They had made it to the door, and Sherlock wanted to head to the nurse’s station just in front of them, but John only felt the dizziness worsen as he saw how far it was.

“Just five steps, John.”

John shook his head and started to turn around. Sherlock sighed, but went along with him. He helped him get settled back into the bed. John sighed tiredly and closed his eyes, but his brows were furrowed in pain.

“Hungry, John?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head without opening his eyes. The pain was increasing, and he just wanted a distraction, but he had been sleeping far too often, it was becoming incredibly boring. He could hear Sherlock hover by the bed, slowly starting to pace.

John urged his eyes opened and focused on Sherlock. “C-case?”

Sherlock looked at him, his brows furrowing.

John cleared his throat. “Tell me—about a case. I-I don’t want to—f-fall as-sleep…”

Sherlock shook his head dismissively and sat down. “No, just rest, John.”

John bit his lip and shook his head. “I…am…resting. There must be a case you did…while I was…asleep. Don’t tell me…you were h-here for three months.” John smirked slightly at the absurd thought, but Sherlock suddenly looked guilty, and wasn’t looking at him.

John’s face hardened and he swallowed tightly. “Serious-ly?” he whispered hoarsely.

Sherlock shrugged. “I took a couple, near the end. But usually, I was here. And I took one last week.”

John gaped at him, stunned. “B-ut what a-bout Victor?” he heard himself ask.

Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes. “What about him?”

“He was fine with th-at? With you…here?”

Sherlock shrugged again. “He was with me sometimes.”

John processed this, and internally cringed. _So Sherlock moved on but not completely…_

“What a-bout Greg?” John asked.

Sherlock met his gaze. “What about him?”

“Does he know? That I’m awake?”

“Yes, he—.” Sherlock cut himself off and stuttered. “He came by a few times.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Does—he know? Does Mrs. Hudson? My sister?”

“Yes, they know, although…”

Sherlock looked at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze. “I may have told them to give you some space,” he said slowly.

John stared at him, and then, surprising them both, he laughed.

Sherlock’s head snapped up with a hesitant grin. John chuckled softly and shook his head.

“I don’t know why…I’m surprised. Y-you just wanted to keep me—to yourself, didn’t y-you?” he teased.

Sherlock’s cheeks reddened, and he grinned. John’s smile faltered slightly when he noticed his cheeks, but he caught himself and widened his smile.

“Sherlock?” he said after a moment.

“Hm?”

“You are…willing, to help me, yeah?”

“Of course.” Sherlock straightened up, suddenly prepared to help.

John looked at him with a gleam in his eyes. “Take a case. Any, I-I don’t care, just…call Greg and take a c-case.”

Sherlock’s grin faltered and his eyes widened. “Don’t you want to try walking again?”

“N-no, I’m good for now. But you’re antsy, and you start pacing ever-y time I’m finished with a session. G-go on and g-get some air, p-please.”

Sherlock shuffled his feet. “I’ll go when you fall asleep.”

John grinned. “No, you won’t. You’ll stay here, hover around, and pretend. Come on, Sher-lock, there must be some-thing. Do it for me?” He softened his face and looked at Sherlock fondly. Sherlock’s cheeks reddened again, and then he nodded and headed to the door.

“Are you sure, John?” Sherlock asked hesitantly.

John smiled. “Yes. When y-you c-come back, you can tell…me all about it.”

Sherlock was hesitant for a moment longer, and then he smiled genuinely, and left.

*            *            *

Day 18

Sherlock didn’t show up until a couple of days later, still in the same clothes, and on the verge of a post-case crash.

John didn’t know he had returned until he walked into his room, leaning heavily on the forearm crutches. He had managed to walk to the nurse’s station twice, and was feeling more confident than he had ever during the past two weeks, although he was now exhausted, and actually wanted a short nap.

Sherlock was already pacing in his room as John walked in. He was clearly still high on adrenaline, yet covered with sweat and a tinge of blood along his shirtsleeve and collar. John suddenly seemed awake now, although he knew it wouldn’t last.

“How was it?”

Sherlock spun around and stopped in his tracks. “It was—.” He gaped and stared at John, his eyes widening as they flickered down his body. John shifted on the crutches and bit his lip, trying to keep his relieved smile contained.

“You’re walking,” Sherlock exclaimed.

John let go of his lip and grinned. “Yeah, a-a little. I c-can…make it to the nurse’s s-station.”

Sherlock smiled and took a step forward. John’s breath hitched at Sherlock’s manner, but then Sherlock seemed to have caught himself, and faltered his steps, stopping in arms reach of John.

“Good,” he said softly. “That’s good.”  ~~~~

John nodded and headed to his bed. “So how was it?”

“Hm?” Sherlock seemed distracted for a moment, but then nodded with realization. “Oh, the case. It was clever, oh, John, you would have loved it!”

John’s smile faltered slightly, but he wasn’t facing Sherlock. He inhaled gently, willing himself to cheer up. He softened his expression, cleared his throat, and sat on the edge of the bed, directing his gaze to Sherlock.

“How so? The blood on your…collar…seems a bit worry-ing.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not mine,” he said with a smirk.

John gave him a small smile, internally relieved. “What…was it a-bout?”

Sherlock walked around to his chair and sat down. “I can tell you later. You should rest.”

John shook his head. “I can wait. Tell me.” He smiled, although he realized he was forcing it slightly. Sherlock smiled back, and told him about the case. John managed to stay awake during the whole thing, and was impressed Sherlock had solved it because of the way the nanny holds her purse. Though as Sherlock finished, John finally started to drift off.

“Amazing,” John sighed. Sherlock beamed at him. John inhaled deeply and looked out to the window.

“The sun’s starting to shine,” John murmured. Sherlock nodded.

“It hasn’t rained today. It’s been raining for weeks.”

John grinned tiredly. “Finally…it’s stopping.” He felt things were gong back to normal. Sherlock told him about an exciting case, and he could walk on his own, even just for fifteen minutes. It was uplifting, and as John fell asleep, the smile on his face didn’t falter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment! I might update again tomorrow, we'll see (it's getting close to the angst-to-the-nth-degree). My shift is very early in the morning, and then I work the next morning. Just stay tuned, or subscribe for updates. You can also check my tumblr and ask if you have concerns/questions. :)
> 
> watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com


	7. Day 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, here it is... hold on tight. comment please!
> 
> Seriously though, listen to Wait from Grey's anatomy, or Leave Your Lover by Sam Smith, but the former is where the title comes from.

**Day 19**

John situated himself back into bed, grinning slightly from the successful walk. He managed to walk down the hall and back to his room—with Sherlock and Mandy by his side of course—but he did manage quite a few steps without their constant aid. It was truly uplifting, and he found he couldn’t stop smiling.

Mandy took the belt off of him and set the crutches against the wall next to his bed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, John,” she said with an encouraging smile. She left, and then Sherlock stepped forward, grinning.

“You should eat something,” John suggested. “I’ll…be fine for a while.”

“You don’t want a wash?” Sherlock offered.

John shrugged, not having an opinion about it. Sherlock seemed to take his word for it, and then headed to the door.

“Greg has a case. There was a murder by the Thames. Should take only an hour or so,” Sherlock mumbled with a hint of excitement. John grinned and nodded.

“Go on. I look for-ward to…hearing about it…after.”

Sherlock smiled, and then left with a slightly speed in his heel. John fell into a light doze for nearly an hour, and when he woke up, he wished he had taken Sherlock’s offer for a wash.

The quiet seemed to emphasis his senses, and he started to feel dirtier. But one thing John didn’t like was asking for help (especially after it had been just offered)—he took their word for it and knew the offers were genuine, but on the other hand, he tries to handle situations on his own—he always had. Besides, the bathroom was just in front of him, and he was improving. He hadn’t been in the bathroom by himself yet, but he knew the layout and the shower didn’t look difficult to use on his own.

John unclipped the oximeter form his finger and removed the wires and patches attaching him to the heart monitor. It was lunch break for the nurses—he had that schedule memorized by now, so he didn’t worry they would notice right away.

John sat up without difficulty, and maneuvered himself until his feet were hanging off the edge. The room swayed slightly, but it quickly came into focus. _Just a little bit tired_ , John told himself.

He reached for the one of the crutches and attached it above his elbow. He reached for the other one and did the same, and then steadied them on the floor.

John slowly slid off and reached the floor with his feet. He leaned heavily against the aids, and turned to the side, and then quickly took a step forward. He altered his body, and leaned forward as he took a dragging step, one after another. He managed five, and was passed the foot of his bed, when his arms began to shake.

 _Not now. I just want to wash myself. And piss without a tube up my prick,”_ John thought, suddenly overcome with annoyance. He took another step forward, and then his left leg started to tingle. Pain shot through his leg, so he altered his weight, and leaned on his right, furrowing his eyebrows. However, John overestimated his right leg, and it trembled suddenly. He lost his balance on the aids, and fell onto his side, landing heavily on the floor.

John cursed and shoved the aids aside. He tried to push himself up, but his body was too heavy to lift up with nothing to grab onto. He dragged himself forward, and leaned heavily against the wall, right next to the bathroom. There was a curtain hanging in the entrance.

John reached up and grabbed it tightly, and then pulled himself up. It shook in his grasp, and was straining against metal hooks, but John still lifted himself upright with one hand against the wall, until a hook gave way, and he collapsed back to the ground, just as the door opened.

“John!”

John lowered his burning face as Sherlock rushed forward. He placed a hand gently on John’s shoulder, but John flinched, so Sherlock removed it.

“What were you thinking?” Sherlock demanded. John refused to look at him, and a sudden gasp escaped his throat, catching himself off guard.

“John?” Sherlock pried.

John trembled and shuffled closer to the wall. Something warm began to dampen his pajama bottoms, and he cowered further away from Sherlock, his cheeks burning red now.

_Fuck—_

A slight gasp told John that Sherlock noticed his mess, and he hesitantly leaned away, increasing the space between them. Sherlock stood up and took of his coat and jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and then kneeled back down, closer to John.

John turned away from him, but could barely move his legs, let alone lift himself up.

Sherlock didn’t stop though—not that John expected him to.

“Let’s get you in clean clothes and back to bed,” Sherlock suggested slowly.

John shook his head. There was a lump in his throat, and a threat of a sob. He covered his mouth with his hand and squeezed his eyes shut. He started to tremble, yet managed to keep the potential sobs at bay.

Sherlock seemed to tense beside him, and when he spoke, his voice was louder and sounded…more like him. John was relived, but the relief was short lived.

“What were you trying to do, John? If you need to go to the bathroom, you could have asked. We’re here to help you. For once can’t you see that?”

John became startled and looked at Sherlock. “I don’t want h-elp—.”

“And I don’t want to be here,” Sherlock pointed out.

John flinched. His eyes started to sting and his throat tightened with emotion. He bowed his head further, attempting to hide his glistening eyes and quivering lip.

Sherlock lowered his gaze and clamped him mouth shut for a moment. “I didn’t mean that, John. I just—“ He inhaled sharply, and when he continued, his voice was back to being hesitantly gentle.

“I don’t want to be here as much as you, but I do want to be here for you. I’m here for you, John.”

_Then why didn’t you wait for me?—_

Sherlock continued. “You need to take it slow. One successful walk won’t make the others easy. You need to take it—

“Easy, I—I know,” John sighed shakily.

John let out a shudder and hunched his shoulders. He ran a hand over his face, but then froze. His fingers grazed something that felt like swollen skin, something slightly raw and recently healed. He hadn’t truly felt it before—he usually just scratched his chin from stubble, and that was it.

John furrowed his eyebrows and looked at Sherlock. Sherlocks eyes were wide now; telling John he knew what John had noticed and was about to ask.

John swallowed tightly. “What’s on my face, Sher-lock?

Sherlock hesitated. Johns felt a surge of anger and leaned forward stiffly. He placed his palms on the ground and pushed himself up. Sherlock hurriedly reached forward to help him, but John shook him off and then stood up. He stumbled, and quickly caught himself against the wall.

“Sher-lock,” John said out of breath. “G-get me a mirror.”

“John, lets clean you up—.”

“Now!” The demand sounded weird on John’s tongue but it was insistent enough that had Sherlock hurrying to the bathroom. ~~~~

He came out holding a small shaving mirror. John snatched it and without hesitation he looked at his reflection.

He wished he hadn’t.

John stared at himself, and with his eyes, followed the small scars that cut across his face.

There was one about an inch and a half long cutting the middle of his left eyebrow and up to his forehead. It was thin, but clearly had been deep enough for stitches. Diagonally below it and by the corner of his eyes, there was a thicker one, yet shorter, that stopped just onto of the cheekbone. There were a couple of scratches next to it that were almost completely healed. John realized he must have covered his face, since there were more scars on his forearms. Most of the scars on his face were on the sides. On the other side, there was a long one—about two inches—starting on his cheekbone and going down his cheek towards the corner of his mouth. It was also surrounded by faded scratches, and a there were a few more along his temple. John’s eyes flickered up, and saw the faded scar from brain surgery, nearly covered with hair, but it was uneven with the rest of it. The surgical scar stood out as a circle just above his forehead. On his neck, John faintly registered thin scars, almost like pecks, but still deep enough for stitches. All of the scars were a faded pink, the smaller ones closer to his skin color, yet lighter.

The mirror started to shake in his hand. John barely registered Sherlock’s strong arms wrap around his waist as he slid against the wall.

“You n-ever told me—,” John mumbled as he slowly lost his balance and leaned heavily against Sherlock.

“Come on,” Sherlock whispered. He led John into the bathroom, and set him down on the chair that was in the shower stall. John silently allowed him to remove his sodden pajamas, shirt, and socks. He instinctively brought his hands up to cover his chest, and Sherlock didn’t mention it, not even with a flicker of his eyes. John glanced down at his chest, and then looked away, remembering the scars that were also there.

 _What a mess_ …John thought. Sherlock brought his attention back, when he realized Sherlock wasn’t continuing.

John noticed his hands were hesitantly by his waistband; John didn’t meet his eye but nodded, and started to pull them down. His muscles had begun cramping a while ago, so he couldn’t move his hands as much as he wanted to. Sherlock pulled his pants the rest of the way off, and set the dirty clothes aside.

Sherlock took the showerhead off the hook, and then turned it on. He held it with one hand and began lathering a washcloth with the hospital-issued soap, as he watered John’s body. He then began washing John’s body gently, and once he was done with his torso, he re-lathered the cloth and handed it to John.

“Will you be able to…” Sherlock trailed off with uncertainty. Silently, John took the cloth and weakly cleaned below his hips. When he was done, he handed the cloth back to Sherlock, who set it aside. Sherlock washed the soap away, and then turned off the shower.

Sherlock brought a towel and handed it to John, and then left. John heard him looking through his bag, and then Sherlock returned with clean clothes. He dried John off—John couldn’t find the energy to do so himself, and had started to drift off. Sherlock helped John redress, and then helped him stand up.

John leaned heavily against Sherlock, and could barely move to take a step. His muscles and head ached. He faintly registered the rough sheets as he lied down. Sherlock pulled the blankets over his chest and slowly tucked him in. John sighed with exhaustion, and stiffly turned his head away from Sherlock, not able enough to stop the wetness leaking from his eyes. He fell asleep before he fully wondered if Sherlock noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com 
> 
> for questions, concerns, and if you follow me you can see posts where I'll ask if anyone wants a quicker update, and if there are enough likes, I'll update sooner (as well as, the more comments, the more I'm encouraged, the better) :)


	8. Day 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, the recovery in this fic is exaggerated, and quickened.
> 
> Please comment! ^.^

**Day 20**

John lay still in bed during the morning, not talking to anyone as they went in and out of his room. Sherlock had visited earlier, but Victor had tagged along, so John had silently told himself that he wasn’t in a talking mood and they had seemed to buy it—until Victor left.

John picked at his lunch, ignoring Sherlock’s concern stare. Sherlock was in his chair, lacking his coat even, indicating he wasn’t going to leave anytime soon.

“Do you want to practice walking, John?” he asked.

John set aside his fork and shrugged, glancing at Sherlock briefly before looking back at his food.

“You don’t want to be out of practice,” Sherlock pointed out.

John huffed with annoyance. He was bored, and maybe walking would speed time up so he could get out of the hospital—which was partially true. Speeding up time wasn’t though.

John slowly pushed the table away and removed the blankets. Sherlock instantly stood up and retrieved the forearm crutches, and then placed them on John’s arms as he helped him stand up. He placed the gait belt on John’s waist, and then started to lead him out the door.

John silently followed him, and quickly developed a decent pace down the hall.

Halfway down the hall, Sherlock’s phone rang. Sherlock ignored it, but then it rang again.

“You can answer,” John said softly as they reached the end.

Sherlock shook his head. “Not import—.”

It rang again. John sighed and lightly glared at him, insisting. Sherlock rolled his eyes and answered with a huff.

“What? No—,” he snapped to the phone.

John paused by the window and looked out, attempting to give Sherlock privacy. It was cloudy out, but still bright. John swallowed tightly, suddenly desiring a breath of fresh air. He hadn’t been outside at all since he had woken up. Maybe that was what he needed…

John looked around, and then noticed Victor on the phone near the benches. Feeling slightly hurt, John looked away.

Sherlock hung up with a scoff and turned to John.

“That was Victor. He’s insisting I’d have lunch with him—.”

“Go ahead,” John said without thinking. He cringed inwardly at the quick response, and softened his face as he met Sherlock’s eyes. “I c-can manage from here.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “You sure?”

John nodded. “It’s just…down the hall. G-go on.”

Sherlock still seemed hesitant, and his eyes were flickering over John’s face as if he was debating.

“Go, Sher-lock,” John said with a light huff.

Sherlock sighed and nodded. “I’ll come by tonight.” He leaned forward for a second, and then blinked and leaned away, slowly turning on his heel. John slowly caught his breath, and watched him go.

Once Sherlock was out of sight, John started back to his room, when his sight caught a door leading to a stairwell. He looked at it for several seconds, thinking.

_I’m only three stories above…maybe I can step outside—no, I haven’t tried stairs yet, not be—don’t be—ridiculous._

John took a step away, but then paused again.

_You can do it—at least try—do it for Sherlock—_

John scoffed at himself, and then quickly looked around. There were few people around, since it was lunchtime. He stepped to the door, opened it, and then walked through, closing it behind him. In front of him was a staircase, only about ten steps.

John walked to the edge, placed the crutches one step lower, and then slowly lowered himself to the step. His arms shook a little, but he still had his balance. He exhaled slowly, and then took another step down, rearranging his sweaty grasp on the handles.

He made it another three, when his vision started to blur and his left leg started to tremble.

_Almost there…_

As he took another step, resting his crutches on it and lowering his left leg, pain shot through his leg, startling him. John instinctively reached for the railing on his left, but he misjudged the distance. He hand only grazed it before he fell onto his right side.

John fell down the remaining steps, and came to a sharp halt on the foot of the stairs, his side having hit the edge of the hard floored stairs. One crutch was lying next to him, and the other was beneath him, pressing hard against his abdomen. John inhaled sharply and slowly lifted himself up with his palms. He dragged himself to the wall, and stiffly maneuvered himself until he was sitting with his back to the wall and his legs in front of him. John sighed shakily and ran a hand over his face, but then cut it short once he felt the scars.

_…Fucking fool…_

After a few moments of self-pity, John grabbed the crutches and pulled himself upright. He lifted himself back up the stairs, finding it easier, much to his dismay.

As he entered the hall and closed the door, and took a few steps away, Vanessa came up him, her face soft yet her expression still stern.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

John offered her a small smile. “Just walking,” he replied.

She took him by the belt and started leading him back to his room. “You’ve been gone for a while. Don’t overwork yourself. And don’t go by yourself again. Between you and me,” she dropped to a whisper as she led him to his bed. “That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

She grinned assuringly as she helped him settle, and then moved the tray back in front of him. “Here’s a snack. I know you didn’t eat much earlier.”

John grinned slightly and took a piece of fruit, swallowing away his guilt. He was relieved he hadn’t been caught; otherwise they wouldn’t leave him alone for days, and Dr. Bailey would probably think he was unconsciously suicidal for taking a walk by himself.

John swallowed tightly and grinned assuringly back at Vanessa as she reattached him to everything.

“Call if you need anything.” She smiled and left.

John finished the plate of fruit, and then lowered his bed down for a quick nap. He winced, feeling something uncomfortable near his abdomen. He lifted his jumper up and saw, already, reddish blue bruising forming around his ribs on the right side.

_Now that’s just great…_

John sighed and fixed his jumper. He hoped it would fade soon. He didn’t know what he was going to say if a nurse saw it, or worse, Sherlock did. John inhaled sharply, winced again, and then closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep.

*            *            *

John startled awake to see Sherlock hovering by his bedside, and Vanessa leaning over him. He started to turn onto his side, but then a sharp pain jolted through his side. The room blurred slightly, and Vanessa’s voice sounded far away.

“John?”

“Hm?” John turned to her and tried to focus, but the pain wasn’t fading. He squinted against a light she was shining at him, and then looked away. Sherlock’s face was creased with worry, and his hands were clenched on the railing. John suddenly felt nauseous, and reached for the bed remote. He lifted himself up, but then grimaced as the pain only worsened. He breathed sharply through his nose and focused intently on the people in front of him.

“Was going on?” John slurred. He was dizzy and still nauseous, and the pain wasn’t going away.

“Your blood pressure dropped, and we are trying to figure out why,” Vanessa explained softly. “Sherlock said that you were moaning in your sleep, and clutching your abdomen. Can I take a look?”

John processed this, and with a dreading feeling, he shook his head, instinctively bringing his arms over his abdomen to keep their hands away. “No—no, M’fine.”

“Your skin is cold, John,” Sherlock said. “You’re having trouble breathing, and your nauseous.” He raised an eyebrow, but John only furrowed his.

“I’m f-fine,” he breathed out. Sherlock huffed, and then reached forward to John’s jumper. John flinched and tried to curl up, but then inhaled sharply and grimaced. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he straightened up.

“John?”

“It’s-nothing…” John slurred. He ran a hand over his face, and ignored the trembling in his hand. He clenched his fist and tried to turn away from Vanessa, but his vision was blurring even more, and he thought he would pass out soon.

“John, let me examine you,” Vanessa said firmly. “Let me help—,”

“No—” John choked. The room swayed and he faintly felt hands touch his. John shook Sherlock’s grasp off, glaring at him weakly. “I’m fine,” he insisted. The pain only continued to worsen, and it was becoming harder to breathe.

Something plastic tightened around his face, and it took him a few seconds to realize it was an oxygen mask. Vanessa altered the tightness and made sure it was on.

“Does that help, John?”

John nodded stiffly, and inhaled. The pain wasn’t going away though.

“It hurts…” John groaned.

“What hurts?” Vanessa asked. John sighed weakly and looked at Sherlock. He felt like an idiot, and would be one in Sherlock’s eyes once he saw what he did. He was being stupid, and was already embarrassed, but the pain seemed to make it worse.

“Morphine?” John mumbled.

“Not until you let me examine you. I can’t give you some without a reason,” Vanessa explained.

John sighed and blinked tiredly. He slowly removed his left hand from his right side and reached for Sherlock. Sherlock interlocked their hands without question, and squeezed it reassuringly. John removed his right arm, giving access to his abdomen. He avoided their gazes, and looked down at his hand in Sherlock’s.

Vanessa gently lifted John’s jumper over his abdomen. John cringed just as Sherlock gasped, his hold on John’s hand slacking. He flickered his eyes over the focal point, and wished he hadn’t. Dark blue and purple bruising covered his right side from the tip of his hip towards the belly button and upwards, fading just below his pectoral.

“John…” Sherlock gasped. John closed his eyes tightly, wanting to avoid their reactions.

“S-stupid…” John mumbled. He inhaled sharply, but winced. It was still hard to breath. Vanessa pressed against his abdomen, causing John to inhale sharply again, and groaned. It was tender— _definitely internal bleeding,_ John’s knowledge provided.

“Can you tell me how this happened?” Vanessa asked firmly.

John lowered his gaze. “Fell…”

“And when was this?”

“Earlier…”

Sherlock tensed beside him. John glanced at him and then quickly looked away, already expecting what he saw.

“When you went back to your room? After I left?” Sherlock asked.

John turned his head away and nodded stiffly.

“How? Why didn’t anyone see you?”

John inhaled shakily and shrugged weakly.

“John?” Sherlock pried.

Vanessa kept the shirt up, and took off her gloves. “It’s all right, John, you can tell us later. But you can’t be going out without another person, for safety reasons. Now, I’m going to take an ultrasound, and see if we need a CT. But you will need surgery—.”

John’s eyes widened, despite the fact that he knew it was the greater probability. “No—no—s-surgery—.”

“I’m afraid it’s the only option. There’s likely some internal bleeding, and it needs to be controlled. And, it looks like your healed ribs re-fractured again, but we’ll take an x-ray just to be sure. Just hang tight, I’ll be right back.” Vanessa quickly left, leaving the two in a tense silence.

“John?” Sherlock continued, his voice firm.

John focused on his strained breathing and ignored him.

Sherlock remained silent for a moment longer, and then he gasped.

“You wanted to go outside. I saw you looking out the window. You—John, you took the stairs.” Sherlock claimed with a disappointed tone.

John turned his head away from him and slowly exhaled, closing his eyes and succumbing to darkness.

*            *            *

John saw blurry figures above him, moving him on something and going fast. He inhaled sharply and winced. He looked around for Sherlock, and saw him rushing along the side, his face pale and brows furrowed.

“Sher—,” John slurred. He raised his hand and tried to reach for him, but it fell limply against his side. Sherlock flickered his eyes to him and squeezed his hand briefly before letting go. The movement came to a halt, and then a man came into his vision.

“We’re going to go into the operating room now, Watson.”

John started at him oddly and flickered his eyes to Sherlock. Sherlock was hovering but not touching. John raised his right hand and reached out, but he didn’t take it.

Sherlock nodded assuringly. “You’ll be fine, John.”

John tired to reach for Sherlock’s hand, but Sherlock stepped away and then John was in another room, bright lights shinning down from him as a mask was placed over his mouth, and he succumbed once more to darkness.


	9. Day 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: DEPRESSION, SUICIDAL THEMES!!!

**Day 22**

John drifted in and out of consciousness. He could hear Sherlock’s voice from a far, but he couldn’t quite understand the words. Memories from when he had woke up from the coma emerged, and for a few seconds, John panicked. He forced his eyes opened as wide as he could, but his vision was still blurry and unfocused.

Sherlock’s head appeared in his sight, and John inhaled deeply, attempting to calm himself down. He slowly remembered what had happened, and that he had surgery for internal bleeding, not for a head injury. He looked at Sherlock, who was looking at the blanket, his own eyes unfocused. John felt a pang of embarrassment when he realized what Sherlock was saying.

“…Why would you even consider it, John? You’re a doctor, yet sometimes it seems like you don't  _think_ …”

John swallowed tightly and started to feel nauseous. He blinked his eyes rapidly, already feeling the coolness of unconsciousness wrapping around him. As he started to drift away, Sherlock shifted, and made an alarming sound.

John’s stomach dropped with guilt as he realized Sherlock was silently crying, wiping his eyes and muttering to himself.

“Idiot. Why didn’t I…”

John fell back asleep before he could hear the rest of Sherlock’s mutters, and knew deep down, he probably wasn’t going to remember this.

*            *            *

John flinched awake and slowly opened his eyes. His room was lit grey by the gloomy skies outside, and it was empty. He was sitting halfway between upright and flat on his back, and his abdomen tingled but there wasn’t any pain. He glanced down to see an IV in his elbow—a blood transfusion—and an IV on top of his hand—morphine.

John sighed tiredly and leaned against the pillow. He looked out to the hallway, and didn’t see anyone hovering.

_Where’s Sherlock?_

The door opened, and John’s hopes fell just as they had risen the moment he recognized Vanessa.

“Good afternoon,” she said softly. “Feeling any better?”

John nodded stiffly.

“We were unable to take an x-ray, and we still want to, so we can be sure none of your ribs are fractured. It’s almost been twenty-four hours since your surgery, so we’ll wait a little bit and then take them, all right?”

John nodded again. Vanessa continued checking his vitals, and then reached for his gown.

“I’ll just check the surgical area. Later, you can have a sponge bath and change into something more comfortable, but whoever washes you will need to avoid this area, and place a clean bandage.”

John nodded in understanding. Vanessa pulled the gown out of the way, and quickly scanned the scar underneath the bandage. John looked away, feeling disgusted about another scar on his body.

“Looking good,” Vanessa reported. “Just rest for now, and I’ll come back with a wheelchair later for your x-ray.”

John sighed and slowly fell into a light doze, feeling awfully lonely.

*            *            *

Vanessa wheeled John out of the examination room, and headed back to his room.

“We’ll see what they scans show, but I don’t think you fractured them. Just be careful next time, all right? And—.”

“Have someone…with me…at all times,” John filled in for her with a tired sigh.

“That’s right,” she said despite his tone. She paused by the nurse’s station when a phone started ringing.

“Shit—I mean, pardon me. Could you wait here for a moment?” she asked John.

John nodded, and then she placed him just by the front desk and applied the brakes on his chair. She walked to the phone, her back to John, and answered it. John looked around for a moment, sighing when he could tell the call was going to be a bit long. He looked around, and then noticed a book on the table, opened.

John glanced at it, and then realized it was a visitor log. Glancing at Vanessa and seeing her still occupied, John reached for it and placed it in his lap. He turned the pages back a couple of months, and read it.

Sherlock had visited him every day until two weeks before he woke up, and then the visits became once every other day for about a week, and then they just stop, just one week before John woke up.

_Sherlock didn’t visit me—for a week—was there a case—he said there had been some, but why no visits at all?_

John’s mind raced over several possibilities, but only came to one he was dreading. _Sherlock lost hope—he must have!_

John’s heart pounded loudly in his ears, causing him to miss Vanessa concern.

“John?”

John startled and looked up at her. Her brows were furrowed, and her eyes flickered from the book to his face.

“Everything all right?”

John gulped tightly and placed the book back.

“Can you…” John trailed off and lowered his voice. “Can you…make sure…Sher-lock doesn’t visit me?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Did you two fight—?”

“He doesn’t _want_ to be here,” John said slowly. “P-please, c-can you—.” His voice hitched and he looked away. _If he wanted to be here, he would be,_ John told himself.

Vanessa sighed. “If you want, John, then yes, I can.”

John nodded his appreciation, but kept quiet. She led him back to his room, and helped him into bed. As she left, she casted him a worried look, but John barely caught a glimpse of it as he turned his head away from the door and stared longingly out the window.

*            *            *

John sat in the chair, freshly dressed in pajamas and a long-sleeved shirt, after Vanessa had washed him. He looked outside, however his vision was unfocused, and he didn’t notice the wet sidewalks from an earlier downpour or even a man in a long coat wandering around.

John wanted to open the windows and feel the fresh air against his face—feel a drizzle of any sort, the harsh, chilly wind, or even the wet pavement beneath his limbs. He had nothing in this hospital; he wasn’t the man he used to be, yet he could feel that person within reach—but he couldn’t grasp it. He couldn’t walk like he used to, he couldn’t talk in _his_ tone and voice.

Sherlock didn’t even want to be here, no matter what he said to John’s face. The visiting log was clear enough: Sherlock had stopped visiting. It could have been a case; it could be because Sherlock had lost hope that John would wake up, or, it could be because John didn’t have a purpose for Sherlock anymore in that state; John wasn’t completely sure, but he was more certain that he didn’t _want_ to know. He was of no use, so Sherlock left—tried to stay and see, but as the weeks went on it was likely Sherlock just got bored.

John closed his eyes tightly, wishing he could just talk to Sherlock. But he would never admit this doubt out loud; Sherlock would try to be convincing but John had trouble trying to convince himself. He wasn’t useful anymore; not to anyone.

John sighed shakily and pressed his forehead against the cool window. A sudden urge infiltrated his mind—his chest tightened and his breathing grew strained. He could barely breath in this place—he needed out now!

John looked up and spotted the level that would unlock the window. He stood up shakily and reached for it. It clicked open easily, and then John slid the window open. He felt a rush of cold air against his face, sending shivers down his body. It was mesmerizing, but he still couldn’t find a breath.

John leaned forward until he was pressed up against the open space, the windowsill just pressing below his hips. Outside, there was space where someone could place a pot of plants, or stand—

_No—don’t think that._

John swallowed tightly and looked out in front of him, but he quickly found himself looking at the ground. It wasn’t far below. He was only three stories above. It would hurt, but he could live—

_Stop it._

John inhaled sharply, breathing in the damp air and filling his lungs with it. Below him, there weren’t many people around, so no one could see him as he reached forward and pulled himself out of the window until he was standing on the sill. It was a high enough window—high enough that John managed to stand and grasped the lining of the window above him to hold him steady. No one was around. He could fall and no one would know right away—

_What am I doing? I should get down—_

John inhaled again and stretched a foot out off the edge, when suddenly a gust of wind blew against him, and his left hand slipped off the window frame. John gasped and quickly reached upwards, grasping it back tightly, his knees bent as he tried to regain his balance.

His heart pounded hard against his chest and he stiffly lowered himself and then he slid off the edge back into the room, crumbling into the chair as he tried to catch his breath. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks, and he didn’t wipe them away. He rocked himself back to forth, slowly, very slowly, catching his breath.

After a few minutes, there was a soft knock on the door. John wiped his face quickly and straightened up, only to see Victor hesitantly walking in, his eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“Everything all right, John?” he asked casually. John nodded silently. He sensed Victor was suspecting something, so he offered a small grin and forced himself to hold eye contact.

Victor walked in closer. “You’re shivering slightly. I can close the window?”

John nodded again, and smiled a little bit bigger to show his gratitude as Victor closed and locked the window. The tall man exhaled softly and then sat down in Sherlock’s chair. John straightened up a bit and placed his hands on his knees. He kept his gaze on the floor, and started to feel a little uncomfortable with the quiet.

Victor broke the silence. “Sherlock and I met in university,” he said. John looked up at him, his curiosity rising and his need for a distraction. Victor met his eyes and continued. “I was the one who got him into drugs.”

John’s eyes widened and his back stiffened. He parted his mouth to speak, but Victor beat him to it.

“I regret it,” Victor assured. “Most of our time together, we were high. His brother isn’t fond of me, and nearly took matters into his own hands, which I’m sure you can imagine.”

John grinned weakly and nodded.

“I never really got to know him, John,” Victor continued, his eyes softening. “He was colder back then, distant sometimes, more wild and uncontainable. He’s changed. No matter how he tries to insist he’s the same, he’s not. And I’d like to thank you, John.”

John’s eyes widened, and his stunt on the window momentarily vanished from his mind. “For what?” he managed in a hoarse whisper.

Victor seemed to ponder for a moment, and then smiled. “For being patient with him. For never leaving him. And, for forgiving him. I know some things he’s done, and that is what I admire about you, John. That after all this time, you still want him.”

John felt a blush rise on his cheeks, and he had to force himself to keep eye contact.

“You mean…” John trailed off, the word on the tip of his tongue vanishing for a moment. “It’s obv-ious…”

Victor smiled, and John started to realize it was a little bit of a sad one. “The nurse, Vanessa, is my sister. She told me you saw the visitor log and made an assumption—a hasty one, mind you. I can explain,” Victor paused. John processed everything so far, and then gave him a slight nod for him to continue.

“He didn’t visit you for a week because _I_ had shared my concerns that you wouldn’t wake up, and that he would start to lose himself. I’m afraid I made a mistake. You see, Sherlock would have waited for you forever, and I was too possessive to see how much he really cares for you. I thought he would lose himself.”

John’s heart throbbed hard in his chest. “I-I thought—.”

“I think I know,” Victor intervened. “You did need space. But I…I think he’s waited for long enough. Sherlock needs you back.”

John felt a pang of guilt, and then Victor leaned forward, softening his face.

“I don’t mean to make you feel guilty, John,” he said, raising his voice slightly, sounding less patronizing and more honest. “I didn’t allow Sherlock to wait, and I was wrong to do so. He should have been here more. But you need space, and if you make him wait, it’ll be more understandable, coming from you—.”

“But not for too long,” John countered. “I-I c-can’t lose him…. We—we n-need other— _each_ other.”

Victor nodded, and then swiftly stood up. “Indeed.” He looked sad again, but almost with acceptance. He walked silently towards the door.

“Vic-tor?” John called after him. The man turned around and faced him.

“I’m…sorry it has to be like this,” John said. “I want him to be happy. And you seemed to have done that.”

Victor nodded. “For a little while, yes. But it always seemed he was thinking of someone else.” Victor smiled softly. “Not in certain moments of course,” he added.

 _Of course he would add that,_ John thought.

Victor smiled once more, and then left, closing the door behind him.

John stiffly collected himself, and then limped heavily to his bed, completely worn out and a lot to process. His gaze spotted the union jack pillow, and his heart panged at the piece from home. It was a warm feeling, something John hadn’t felt in a while. He pulled the covers over his body and turned away, his back to the outside window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I need to tell you now, the angst isn't over...
> 
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> watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com
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> 
> Comments for quicker updates :)


	10. Day 23-24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my favorite chapter to write. It's longer than the rest I think, and has a delightful amount of angst. Enjoy :)

**Day 23**

John woke up later then usual, and didn’t have the appetite for a late breakfast. He was left alone for the most part, the staff unaware of his close call the night before. John wanted to keep it that way. He wanted to feel better, to feel more like himself, but he knew it wouldn’t happen over night. He just wanted to be left alone, yet at the same time he didn’t want to be either, at least just so he wouldn’t get lost with his thoughts. And to top it all off, he wasn’t sure when he wanted Sherlock to come back, even though he hadn’t clarified with Vanessa that he had changed his mind.

Dr. Bailey walked in just then, causing John to groan inwardly to himself. He didn’t want to _talk_ about his feelings or how he was doing. He just wanted normalcy—anything to help him get better and get him back home.

“How are you today?” the psychiatrist asked. “You slept in a bit, and haven’t eaten yet.”

John shook his head, and looked out towards the hallway.

“How do you think you’re recovering?”

“S-slow,” John responded.

“That’s perfectly normal. Why don’t you show me? Sit in the chair; it might be easier to have this conversation.”

At first, John didn’t want to move. But he knew he probably should. With a gruff, John sat up and got off the bed, pretending not to notice Dr. Bailey’s offered hand. He limped heavily intothe chair and stiffly sat down, and then placed the crutches beside it. He felt slightly better, but only slightly.

“Better?”

John nodded.

“Anything you want to talk about first?”

John sighed and shook his head. His back was already starting to hurt, and his surgical scar was itching and uncomfortable. Perhaps this was a bad idea—

“Can we reschedule?” John asked hoarsely. Dr Bailey was startled for a moment, and he leaned forward in his chair, concern furrowing his brows.

“John—.”

“Please?” His tone was insistent, and it seemed to have done the trick. Dr. Bailey started to put his things away, but at a slow pace. John tiredly placed the crutches back on his elbow and stood up stiffly. He took a step forward, but one of the crutches got caught behind the chair leg, and he lost his balance, falling on his side.

Dr. Bailey rushed forward, but John quickly glared at him.

“I’m fine,” John insisted. Dr. Bailey halted, and took a step back.

“It’s all right to fall,” he said gently. John huffed and pulled himself upright, but he couldn’t seem to get his crutch back on correctly. With his anger rising, John tossed them aside and leaned back against the wall.

Dr. Bailey quickly walked away, and then voices emerged from the doorway. Mandy hurried forward, but then John snapped.

“I don’t ne-ed help!” he glared at them. Mandy halted, and went back to Vanessa. They whispered in hushed tones. John didn’t bother trying to listen. He knew he shouldn’t have snapped, and was already starting to feel guilty. The group continued to talk, their voices gaining volume.

“He should be taking it easy,” Vanessa said louder. “He just had surgery.”

“I think he’s going through something emotionally and psychologically,” Dr. Bailey suggested. “He seems bothered. And, lonely. Has he had any visitors?”

“His friend usually came, but he was taken off the list. John didn’t want to see him anymore,” Vanessa replied.

John clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut. “Shut up!” he snapped.

He kept his eyes closed, and his face burned with shame.

_They know—they must know about last night—why is this getting worse—why is everything like this? Sherlock could help—but—_

John inhaled shakily and brought his hands to his head, keeping his eyes closed.

_SherlockSherlockSherlockSherlockSherlock_

“What happened?” Sherlock’s voice suddenly demanded. John stilled, but he didn’t look up.

There were more whispers, and then he heard footsteps pause in front of him. Sherlock kneeled down beside him, but refrained from touching. John fought the urge to shift away.

“John—”

“I don’t need any help.“ John snapped quietly, keeping his head down, but slowly opening his eyes and squinting against the fluorescent light _. God, I sound like a child,_ John thought shamefully. He cringed, and turned his head away from Sherlock, but Sherlock was quicker and cupped his jaw, tilting it up and keeping it facing him. John lowered his eyes, and then Sherlock tilted his chin more. John squirmed out of his grasp and turned his head away.

“Go away, Sher-lock,” John weakly insisted, lying despite everything to the contrary.

He waited, dreading Sherlock’s response. He sensed Sherlock looking towards the door, and then he heard the nurses leaving and the door closing.

“John,” Sherlock reached forward but John moved away. He leaned too far, and almost lost his balance, but he managed to catch himself with his palms.

“I don’t n-need your h-elp—.”

“Yes, you do—” Sherlock continued to try to lift him, but John only squirmed away from his touch, distancing him. He managed to crawl closer to the bed. He pulled himself up and then leaned heavily against the side, holding it tightly to keep him upright.

Sherlock hovered but John kept him away with a fierce glare. He held onto the bed as he walked around it, since the railing was up on one side and he couldn’t lower it. He held onto the attached table and managed to go around. Sherlock seemed to have actually listened to his glare, since he stayed where he was, as John tried to figure out how to pull himself onto the bed.

John sighed, lowered his head, and bit his lip. He would have to drag himself onto the bed; he couldn’t bend his leg enough to curl up, let alone lift them up to climb. He could turn around and hop on, but jumping was out of the question.

John swallowed tightly, and glanced at Sherlock, but was taken aback. Sherlock was staring at him like he did when he was put out—like his usual self. John instantly relaxed with the familiar expression, but wasn’t expecting the tone that followed.

“Need help now?” Sherlock asked, almost sarcastically.

John furrowed his brows. “I—.”

Something seemed to have snapped in Sherlock. He took a step forward and straightened up, and then threw his hands up like his dramatic self.

“You can’t just refuse help, and then ask for it a second later, because help isn’t going to be constant, John,” Sherlock snapped angrily. John continued to furrow his brows, and his body began to tremble from standing up. Sherlock ran his hand through his curls, blinking several times, as if he too was surprised by his outburst. John sensed this was about something else, but he decided not to pry.

Sherlock stalked to the door, and hovered by it, obviously debating whether to leave or not. John turned to face him, and continued to hold onto the bed, his legs and back already aching.

“I d-on’t want help,” John said quietly.

Sherlock glanced at him for a second, his eyes flickering with…something John couldn’t place. It sent a shiver down his spine. Sherlock inhaled sharply, and faced the door. He raised a hand and held the doorknob, but then let it go.

“There are a lot of things people don’t want, John,” Sherlock said quietly. John altered his weight and reached for the one of the aids that rested against the bed. As he placed one on his right elbow, he realized Sherlock must have placed them there when he was trying to walk.

He took a step forward while leaning heavily on the crutch. “I know,” John muttered. “I don’t want to be like this…I want a lot back…” he paused. “I’ve lost—everything. _Everything_ has changed—” John’s voice hitched and he clamped his mouth closed. His arm trembled, so he clenched his fist tighter around the aid and took a step further away from the bed.

Sherlock turned around abruptly, his face impassive. “I won’t help you, if you don’t want me to.”

John suddenly felt anger surge in his veins, and he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t _want_ help, but I can’t—I can’t—f-fucking—” John huffed, aggravated. He looked at Sherlock, glaring. “I c-can’t fucking piss or shower without it. I can’t even wipe my own fucking arse without a goddamn person standing by, watching me! I can barely keep food down, I can’t w-walk properly, or even f-fucking—talk correct-ly—I can’t—think properly; I can’t _do_ anything!”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he took a step forward. “John—!”

John held tightly to the aids and started to turn around. “No, it’s f-fine. You can leave now. It’s what you’re g-good at.”

Sherlock gasped and took another step forward, a protest on his lips, but John shook his head and held up a hand.

“Just GO—!” John gasped as his left leg stiffened. He tried to lean to the right, but he was already stumbling. He tried to catch himself with the aid, but he continued to fall forward. John faintly heard Sherlock yell his name just as his head collided with the side of the table, knocking him out instantly.

*            *            *

The first thing John was aware of was tightness in his forehead, and a throbbing pain surrounding it. He groaned, and willingly succumbed to unconsciousness.

A monotonous beeping sound woke him up some time later, and the pain was less, but still throbbing. He slowly opened his eyes, and then winced, and closed them again.

“John?”

John sighed tiredly and tried opening his eyes. He saw a blurry face looking at him, and after a few blinks, his vision started to come into focus.

Sherlock’s face was pink and flushed slightly; his eyes were red-rimmed, and his hair was wildly untidy. John stared at him, and then his eyes flickered to the window. It was dark out. He glanced at the clock, which also showed the date. It was the 23rd. John didn’t remember what month it was, neither did he remember the day it was yesterday.

His heart rate increased, and he suddenly found it hard to breath. The room around him blurred, and something was pressing on his hand. John huffed and pulled it out of its grasp. A hand rested on his forehead and gently combed through his hair. John moved his head, weakly attempting to remove it, but it wouldn’t move.

“Relax, John,” Sherlock said again. John faced him and parted his mouth. His tongue felt heavy and he sounded out the word before he spoke in a hoarse slur.

“L-long—how—.” It was increasingly frustrating, and his breathing didn’t calm down.

“You’ve only be unconscious for a few hours,” Sherlock said softly. He continued to trail his fingers through John’s hair, and as he processed this, the touch became comforting.

John sighed with relief and slightly whimpered. His head continued to ache, and he knew he was about to fall asleep again.

“I’ll wake you up in a little while, John. The doctors want to make sure this isn’t a serious concussion.”

John nodded tiredly, but then stilled. He slowly raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s, and attempted to sit up further, but couldn’t. Sherlock looked at him, and then his eyes widened.

“Do you need—”

“Yes—,” John gasped.

Sherlock reached behind him, and then placed a plastic bowl on John’s lap just as he leaned forward and heaved. Sherlock rubbed his back awkwardly as John retched little into the bowl. He coughed and then leaned back heavily against the pillows. He closed his eyes and heard Sherlock remove the bowl, and then stand up. He could feel Sherlock leaning forward over his body. He felt his fingers trail across his forehead, but then he cringed when Sherlock’s fingers grazed his head wound. John took Sherlock’s wrist and gently removed it, wincing slightly.

“Mirror…” John whispered.

Sherlock softened his face. “Rest for now—.”

John shook his head and swallowed tightly. He let go of Sherlock’s wrist and raised his hand to his forehead. His fingertips grazed a couple of fresh stitches, and by his memory, John realized the wound was just above his left eyebrow, a few inches away from the surgical scar.

John clenched his lips together and closed his eyes. He turned his head away from Sherlock, and after a few seconds, he felt Sherlock gently getting off the bed.

“Do you want me to leave, John?”

John squeezed his eyes tighter and let out a shaky breath. After a few seconds, he sighed again, and focused on the wall in front of him.

“Why did you stop visiting?” John whispered. He remembered Victor’s answer, but he really wanted to hear it from Sherlock.

He could feel Sherlock tense beside him, and as he prepared to turn completely away from him, Sherlock answered quietly.

“I lost everything, too.”

John cringed at the repeated words, and forced himself not to look at Sherlock.

“I…I didn’t think you would wake up. Victor had told me to prepare myself, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

John inhaled shakily. “So you just stopped. You didn’t hope I would?”

“I did! I came back as soon as I heard.”

John processed this, unsure what to think. He was conflicted; Sherlock seemed to care but did he really? What if he was just saying all this so he could stop feeling guilty?

“I felt guilty,” Sherlock said as if he knew John’s thoughts. “I wanted to make it up to you because—.”

Sherlock cut himself off and then leaned forward, raising his voice. “I do care about you, John. Please, don’t doubt that.”

Now John was starting to feel guilty again. He swallowed tightly and refrained from looking at Sherlock.

“You don’t,” John insisted despite everything Sherlock and Victor had said. He shook his head and blinked tiredly. “Not really.”

“John—.”

John closed his eyes, feeling hope rise in his chest that was suffocating. It didn’t make any sense; why would Sherlock feel guilty? He had stopped visiting. He made the choices. He left, he pretended to die, he left—he always leaves—he chose Victor—

“Leave,” John choked. If Sherlock left now, at least it would be because John told him too, even though John wasn’t entirely sure he _wanted_ Sherlock to leave.

“John?”

“Leave,” he said louder.

John heard Sherlock sigh and then put his coat on. He kept his eyes closed as he heard Sherlock opening the door, pausing, and then closing it behind him without another word.

As John fell into a restless sleep, the silence was deafening.

*            *            *

Day 24

John still wasn’t hungry, and in no mood to have a sponge bath either.

“How about we go for a walk? You shouldn’t exercise without some food, so we could go down to the cafeteria? Maybe you can…” Mandy trailed off, clearly noticing John’s lack of enthusiasm with the suggested activities. She sighed softly.

“John—,”

“I’m not f-feeling w-well,” John mumbled as he turned onto his left side, away from her. She squeezed his shoulder reassuringly and then slowly left.

He remained in that position until it was suddenly lunchtime, and Vanessa walked in with his lunch. She left it on the table, gave him a sympathetic look, and then left. The door failed to close completely as Sherlock quickly walked in. John glanced at him, and then looked away, readjusting his position until he was sitting up.

Sherlock went straight to his usual chair, sat down, and then started to read the morning paper he had brought with him. He didn’t speak, and neither did John. After several minutes of silence, John prepared to say something, but then he saw Victor waiting outside in the hall, and all motivation dissipated.

Sherlock looked at him, and seemed to have communicated silently with his eyes, because then Victor left.

John didn’t like thinking about Sherlock and Victor, though. His head ached when he did, as did his chest, which had been hurting a lot more recently. Seeing Victor made up knots in his abdomen and a disappointment feeling in place. It was dreadful, and John noticed the day wasn’t much better after he sees them both. To top it off, he still had to think about what Victor had said, which didn’t relive the stress one bit.

The door opened, and Mandy walked in. Her eyes greeted John, and then looked at the tray full of food, and her step faltered as she reached his bed.

“Oh, you haven’t finished. I can come back later—.”

“It’s all right,” John said quietly. “I’m not hungry. I can do today’s session.”

Mandy’s face faltered. “It’s best if you’ve had something to eat. We don’t want you fainting now, do we?” She smiled sincerely, and squeezed John’s shoulder. “I’ll come by later.”

John’s face fell, but he managed to offer an understanding nod. Mandy nodded, and then left.

John sighed and raised a shaky hand to the yogurt. The trembles had barely stopped in the past few days, and the doctor had said it was just his muscles healing from being atrophied for so long, but it was still considered an improvement.

John slowly peeled off the lid, but his hand continued to shake. Frustrated, he slammed the cup onto the table and sighed. Sherlock didn’t flinch.

John ran a hand over his face, but then felt the scars, so he stopped. The quiet was too much; it was like when he had first started waking up. He remembered he could hear some sounds, but he couldn’t call back to it. _It could be worse, though_ , John thought. _Sherlock could not respond. He would, if I spoke first. But no, I won’t give him the satisfaction._

John cringed slightly. He never liked being stubborn. He felt a faint sign that he was hungry, so he reached for the yogurt again and tried to open it. The foil lid slid out of his grasp. His cheeks burned as he placed the cup on the table and leaned against the pillow. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

“Can you…” John trailed off, hoping he was clear enough. Sherlock raised the newspaper and covered his face completely.

“It’s just yogurt,” Sherlock said flatly. John had no idea what his face looked like, if he was honestly impassive about it or not.

John clenched his fists and opened his eyes, glaring at the newspaper that blocked Sherlock’s face. He reached for the cup, tried peeling the lid off, but it wouldn’t budge. He set it down, and reached for the plate. It was a cheese sandwich. Beside it, there was a juice carton and crackers. John reached for the carton and tried to pull it open, but he couldn’t hold it steady enough. John became more frustrated, and slammed the carton the table out of anger. He reached for the crackers and managed to pull the wrapper open with his teeth. However, the crackers crumbled in his tight grasp, sending crumbs everywhere.

John snapped. He leaned forward and with his arms, slid and pushed everything off the table, sending it crashing to the floor by the door. The newspaper in Sherlock’s hand fell to his lap, and he impassively looked at the mess. John leaned back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling.

“You can’t have a session today, unless you eat,” Sherlock pointed. John gritted his teeth and glared at the ceiling.

“Fuck you,” John gasped. He blinked rapidly and his vision started to blur.

Sherlock stood up, folded the paper, and then put his coat on. As he headed to the door, he spoke.

“Don’t be dependent on _me_ , John. It’s disappointing and utterly dull.”

John only became angrier, and managed to keep his gaze on the ceiling. “You couldn’t,” he said tightly.

Sherlock halted and turned around to face him. “What?” he said coldly.

John refused to look at him. “You depended on Victor,” John clarified just as coldly. “You couldn’t even be here for me without needing another person. You couldn’t just wait. And then you left. Does he follow you on cases too now? He would be a decent choice; he’s fit and tall—taller than you, even—hell, he’s even good to look at.”

John inhaled sharply, realizing with disappointment that was the most he had said without stuttering. 

Sherlock’s face faltered slightly, and he took a small step forward.

“John…”

John squeezed his eyes tightly and covered his mouth as a sob threatened to escape. _No, keep it together—._ He inhaled shakily, ashamed that sudden tears were leaking out the corner of his eyes. He let out a choked gasp, and then lost control completely.

John heard Sherlock step closer. He opened his eyes slightly, but then the tears came quickly, and then he was sobbing. The stitches tightened uncomfortably in his forehead, and the tears stung his eyes and itched his skin. He raised his hands and attempted to cover his face, when gentle hands wrapped around his wrists and pulled them away.

John pulled them out of his grasp and attempted to cover his face, but Sherlock reached again and tightened his hold. He pulled John forward until his face was pressed tightly against his chest. The sobs only worsened; tears and snot dampened Sherlock’s shirt; John didn’t bother trying to pull away. Sherlock had an arm around his back, and was holding him tightly. He clutched at his shirt as tears continued to fall down his cheeks and his choked cries were muffled against his chest.

John lost track for how long he wept. His body shuddered and trembled and ached with exhaustion, despite not having done much at all. He was embarrassed and disgusted with himself; how he could be this weak and selfish was beyond pitiful.

Sherlock continued to rub his back, even as the intervals between the tearful fits increased, even when the last one shuddered through his body, leaving John emotionally spent.

“I won’t ever leave you, John. Not like that again,” Sherlock said, as if he had heard John’s inner thoughts.

John nodded against Sherlock’s chest and leaned into him further, hiding his face.

“I d-don’t…like this…” John choked. It wasn’t what he wanted to say—there was so much to say, it was overwhelming just to prepare it.

Sherlock tensed and started to pull away, but John tightened his hold on Sherlock’s shirt and wouldn’t let him go any further.

“Don’t leave,” John said shakily. “Just…I mean—” John huffed with frustration and leaned closer in the embrace, hoping to silently express what he wanted at the moment. Over the past several weeks, John hadn’t had direct human touch—it had all been clinical and careful, so much so that this closeness was heightening John’s need to be touched. It was reassuring, filling John with content.

Suddenly, John had never been so regretful than he was now. What was he doing? Embracing a man in a relationship—whatever kind it was, Sherlock was spoken for. John cringed at he reminder, but he knew he deserved this. He had waited too long, and had just kept telling himself to wait until the right moment. What kind of man would want a man like John: wounded, scarred, and terrorized by war yet thriving for danger and adrenaline, but still cowardly?

John shook those thoughts away and focused on Sherlock’s breathing. He knew it was wrong to blame Sherlock— it was his fault after all. He had chosen Mary; he had decided to go with the wedding even with Sherlock back. He purposely turned a blind eye to what he saw on the detective’s face at his wedding. He ignored what Magnussen had said _—“look how you care for John Watson”_. How could John have been so stupid—such an idiot for all this time—for years?

In the embrace, John, who seemed to have been lifted slightly and now rested his cheek and chin on Sherlock’s shoulder, raised his gaze to see Victor hovering, his back to the room. Sherlock chose him. Whatever was between John and Sherlock needed to be said. John silently hoped Victor would give them some time and space, but he still had seemed reluctant in letting Sherlock go, and John wasn’t even sure Victor was willing to.

John slowly pulled himself out of Sherlock’s hold, and leaned back against the pillow. He avoided Sherlock’s gaze, but briefly forgot what he was going to say when Sherlock trailed his thumb down his cheek, wiping away the remnants of tears.

He cupped John’s jaw, and tilted it upwards. John met his gaze, giving up with resisting. Gentle blue eyes met his, enhanced with tiny splotches of light brown and green. John embraced the caress, and leaned into Sherlock’s palm.

After a moment passed, John moved away and diverted his gaze. He saw Sherlock’s brows start to furrow, and sensed a question on his lips.

Sherlock spoke before John could think of something to say.

“I’m sorry I didn’t stay, John,” Sherlock said softly. John glanced at him and then looked away, nodding.

“I need you to tell me,” he continued, hesitantly. “What you want me to do.”

John furrowed his brows and swallowed tightly. “I…

_I want to get better—back to normal. I want to be happy. I want you. I want you to be happy._

John shook his head and looked at Sherlock, clenching his jaw and hardening his stare, but keeping his face soft.

“I want you to be happy, Sherlock. You don’t need to do anything—.”

“I want to.”

“Okay,” John breathed shakily. “Then stay. Just not out of obligation.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, and then relaxed them. His eyes flickered over John’s face, as if realizing something. John’s heart pounded in his ears, suddenly overcome with nerves.

 “Do you remember anything from that night, John?” Sherlock whispered uncertainly.

John inhaled deeply, taken aback. “I remember arguing. I’m not sure what it was about though. It fades from there.”

“We did argue. You were going to tell me something,” Sherlock said.

“I don’t remember,” John said. Although, he did have a thought.

He heard Sherlock sigh—he sounded disappointed.

“You asked about Victor. And I told you that we hade met in university. You recalled that I had said I was married to my work, and you asked why it changed. You seemed…”

“Curious?” John asked.

“Hurt”, Sherlock said.

John stared at him, and then looked away. _Oh._

He could feel Sherlock looking at him, so he inhaled deeply and met his gaze, offering a small grin.

“If you really…care about him, I’m happy for you. You two do seem like a good match,” John said.

Sherlock sighed, this one more aggravated. “John—.”

John shook his head, offering a strained smile.

“N-no, it’s all right,” John said shakily. His eyes were started to sting and his throat tightened. _I’m too late. It’s fine—it will be fine._

John’s heart beat rapidly in his chest, overcome with nerves. He looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock met his eyes. They stared at each other for several seconds. John couldn’t shift his gaze away. A memory popped in his mind, reminding him the feel of Sherlock’s breath against his lips. His breathing hitched, and then Sherlock’s brows furrowed slightly.

“John…” Sherlock whispered hesitantly, and then clenched his jaw. He continued to look at him in silence, his eyes flickering. And then, with a flourish, he stood up and put his coat on.

“John, I—,” he trailed off, and diverted his gaze to the floor. “I’ll be right back.” He quickly turned around and left. John watched him walk past Victor, and then Victor was following.

John waited a minute or so, and then carefully climbed out of bed. He used both of the crutches as he walked to the window, and then looked outside, three stories below.

Sure enough, Sherlock soon walked out, and Victor was following him. Something was off in Sherlock’s posture, and the way he ran his hand through his curls suggested it too. Victor however, was calm. John sighed, and then winced, his back and chest already starting to ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment!! 4 more chapters left, 3 of them completed, so I might drag it on a tiny bit to give myself some time to conclude all of this.
> 
> watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com


	11. Day 24 - Sherlock's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the very small hiatus. Work was draining, and I had to fix a couple things in this part. I hope it makes sense now. Enjoy :)

**Day 24 (continue)**

Sherlock paced around the wet sidewalk, desperate for a cigarette, and purposely ignored Victor as he caught up to him.

He hadn’t taken much time for himself to think, since John woke up. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was avoiding to do so—which was unbelievable in itself—or if he truly didn’t have the time. When John had woken up, for several seconds he thought everything would go back to normal.

But then he remembered Victor. It wasn’t even supposed to have lasted this long. He had run into Victor a few weeks before John’s accident. Sherlock wouldn’t have minded—hell, he probably wouldn’t have cared—if Victor had left then. But he didn’t. Victor stayed; he checked on Sherlock nearly every day for three months. Having his presence turned out to bring back memories from their time at university, and then Sherlock sought his comfort during the difficult times.

Sherlock scoffed to himself. The only reason he had started seeing Victor again was to forget about his feelings for John. That was probably a bit not good, but deep down, Sherlock had hoped John would admit his opinion of Victor, just so Sherlock could at least know. He wasn’t sure about how John felt about his self though, but John _had_ been hurt when Sherlock decided to go out with Victor; that was obvious.

But instead of talking about it then, they had argued—danced around the one question that needed to be answered. Sherlock had been wound up so tightly with confliction and in the attempt to hide his feelings for John, he had snapped, and argued back. That was the only explainable reason for why he didn’t follow John back to the flat. If he hadn’t gotten defensive, John probably wouldn’t be in the hospital at all.

There was a heavy sigh, and then a muscular arm wrapped around his lower back and rested on his hip. Sherlock held himself still, deciding not to lean into it. Victor removed his arm, and then placed just his palm on the curve of Sherlock’s lower back.

“You haven’t had one today,” he pointed out. Sherlock had to give him credit; his observations skills weren’t pedestrian.

Sherlock sighed and then turned around and faced Victor. Victor’s eyes flickered, and he took a half a step back, clearly knowing what Sherlock was going to say. Sherlock looked into his eyes; Victor raised an eyebrow, allowing Sherlock to say it aloud.

Sherlock lowered his gaze for a brief moment, and then met his eyes. “I made a mistake,” he whispered.

Victor exhaled and took another step back, nodding. “I’m not surprised. You don’t always think before you act. Never had.”

Sherlock looked away. “Usually I do,” he contradicted. “It’s just this—.”

“Was sudden,” Victor offered. “I see…”

Sherlock straightened up and looked at Victor. Victor met his gaze.

“I knew this would happen eventually,” Victor said. “I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t get my hopes up. I just thought you would have moved on, after all this time. And yet…” Victor paused, and shook his head. “I understand, Sherlock. Even if you don’t seem like the kind of person who would pine for very long.”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “I’m not even…completely sure, Victor. About how he feels. It’s just…he’s clearly bothered by this, and I want him to be happy.”

Victor nodded, processing this. “Even if you’re not?”

Sherlock shook his head dismissively. “I’ve realized, and not for the first time, that caring is a disadvantage, one sided, that is. I may not know _exactly_ what John feels for me, but I know for sure that I’m his friend. We care for each other.”

“And I don’t?” Victor asked, his voice edgier. “I’ve cared about you for months. I made sure you took care of yourself—.”

“And for that, I’m grateful, Victor.” Sherlock met his eyes, and nodded once. “But, it’s John. It’s always him.”

Victor looked at him, and for a moment, his nose scrunched up as if disgusted, and then his face softened until he almost looked hurt. And then, in a swift motion, Victor straightened up, and, towering a couple inches over Sherlock, he shook his head.

“I’m having trouble believing that,” Victor said.

Sherlock straightened up as well and met Victor’s challenging gaze. “Believe what you want. It’s over.”

“No.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “No? Vic—,”

“I’m not an idiot, Sherlock. I can read people too—”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed.

“And I can tell,” Victor continued. “That John is in love with you. But I don’t see it requited.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I just told you—,”

“You think it’s always him. You put him as a priority, and yet you couldn’t stay with him. I managed to convince you easily that he wasn’t going to wake up, and you left him. Without much protest.”

Sherlock stuttered and his stance faltered. He blinked a couple times rapidly and then re-met Victor’s gaze.

“I want to be with John,” Sherlock explained in a slight desperate tone. “I want him to be happy.”

Victor sighed. “Those are two different things. He told me the same thing about you. He’s warming up to us, and wants you to be happy, no matter who you are with, but _now_ you’re going to listen to what he wanted months ago before all this had even happened?”

“None of this would have happened if we weren’t together!” Sherlock snapped. Victor flinched and hardened his face.

The two sighed heavily and glared at each other. Victor was the first to soften his expression, and he slouched his shoulders slightly.

“I see…” he said in a lower voice. “At least, I’m starting too. But I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. You need to know what you want before you make decisions based off what others want. I’m going back inside.”

Victor nodded once and then strode off, his fists clenched beside him. Sherlock huffed and paced around in a few small circles. He knew this tactic; Victor had done this before. He’d try to manipulate and guilt him until Sherlock was too high and confused to think it through for himself. But now, things were different.

Sherlock turned around and stalked down the sidewalk, rummaging through his pocket for a cigarette. His hands came empty, so he crossed the street to a nearby shop, desperate for just one. He refused to think about talking to Victor later, and John too; he knew he would have to, but Sherlock decided to drag it out just a little bit, and get his thoughts in order. He’s waited this long, a little longer wouldn’t hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Victor is made out to be a conflicting character, with tiny manipulation tactics and a genuine caring character as his appearance/mask/outside person (?) (so far...) I had trouble with him, so if there's anything I could improve on for 'original' characters, let me know. (not lists of things I could do better, just a little tweak here and there).
> 
> Comment please! :)


	12. Day 24 (continue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is good! I've been dwelling on it a bit. I took away a scene in the end and so that might just be a very VERY small chapter after this, or I might add it to the epilogue. We'll see. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

**Day 24 (continue)**

John watched Victor and Sherlock part, and furrowed his eyebrows. He stiffly headed back to his bed, his back and head continuing to ache. The doctor had said to take it easy, and he had been reluctant to listen, motivated by his improvement in the past few days. The past few hours however, were a bit disheartening. John climbed into bed and pulled the covers over his body, just as hesitant footsteps entered his room.

John turned to see Victor walking in. He came up to his bed, and smiled gently, although John thought it looked strained.

“How are you doing today, John?” he asked kindly.

John nodded. “Er, g-good. Just usual pain, I think.”

“Good…” Victor trailed off, and seemed hesitant in what he was about to say. John silently wished he would hurry up; he was getting really tired.

“Sherlock’s out having a cigarette,” Victor said.

John’s eyes widened slightly, a bit disappointed in what Sherlock was doing. However, he thought Victor sounded almost like he was tattling on Sherlock, rather than informing where he was. John softened his expression and shrugged.

“The h-hospital can be stressful to anyone. N-not just the um…” John paused, his aphasia kicking in again.

“Patients,” Victor offered.

John nodded stiffly. He parted his mouth to speak, but then winced, a shiver of pain running through his torso.

Victor furrowed his brows. “You all right?”

John nodded stiffly. “F-fine. Just some discomfort.”

Victor nodded. “Well, if you’re sure. Talk to him, won’t you?”

John furrowed his brows and breathed heavily, his chest pain increasing. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying there’s a lot you two aren’t talking about,” Victor clarified, although his brows continued to furrow.

John inhaled sharply and nodded roughly. “Well, y-yes, but we’ve managed to ignore some things. I-I thought it would make things awkward…b-bringing things up. You and him, you see…” John laughed nervously, and then winced again.

“It’s complicated,” Victor said.

John’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh, I’m s-sorry, I d-didn’t mean to p-pry—”

Victor nodded stiffly and waved dismissively. John swallowed tightly as he wondered what Victor meant, suddenly overcome with nerves.

The heart monitor to John’s left suddenly beeped with alarm. John tensed, and instinctively clutched at his chest as a stab of pain shot through his body.

“John?”

John gasped and looked up at Victor, who was looking at him closely and then at the alarms.

“All right, I’m going to lie you down, and move your bed, Victor said calmly, with his body straightening up over John’s bed with alertness.

John nodded. “Heart attack—” he gasped.

“Let’s just see,” Victor said firmly. John’s eyes fluttered, but he urged them to stay open. The pain in his chest increased, and he could feel sweat along his skin, sending shivers down his body.

Victor reached to the wall and pressed the call button. “I need help in here!”

John winced and looked at Victor in alarm. Victor was towering over him, and placing an oxygen mask over John’s mouth.

“Does that help?”

John tried to take a breath, but slowly exhaled as the room faded to darkness.

*            *            *                       

Sherlock exited the elevator onto the third floor, and headed down the hall with hesitation in his stride. He only had one cigarette, and didn’t want another in case John would give him an earful. Not that he would have minded; John worrying about him was preferable than vice versa, especially about something as trivial as smoking.

He walked down the hall, but came to a sudden halt, when he saw a group of nurses rushing into John’s room. Sherlock continued walking and quickly picked up his pace. He made it to the doorway and came to another halt. There was a nurse near John’s head, squeezing oxygen through a tube in his mouth. She was shouting orders to Vanessa, who was on the side, and Victor was standing tall by his side, pressing his palms on John’s chest.

Sherlock slowly walked in, gaping and in shock, as his eyes trailed from Victor to John’s chest to the heart monitor, where the beats were far apart—to far apart to be considered beating on his own. He looked back to Victor, and noticed he was out of breath, his arms straining and his body exhausted as he compressed John’s heart.

The deductions and meaning behind each one flooded Sherlock’s mind, pushing him inside closer until he stood up John’s side.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was strained and quiet, and he slowly raised his hands to his head as he stepped closer until he was nearly leaning over the railing.

“John!”

John remained unresponsive.

“Long—how long?” Sherlock gasped and looked at Victor. Victor slowed down the compressions and met his gaze, his expression sincerely apologetic.

“About two minutes.”

“Where’s the doctor?” Sherlock asked urgently.

“He should be on his way.”

“Mr. Holmes—,” Vanessa cut in. She tried to pull Sherlock out of the way, but he squirmed out of her grasp. He rushed forward and pushed Victor aside. He continued compressions himself, and muttered pleading words under his breath as he counted in his head. The heart monitor didn’t change though, and Sherlock quickly became exhausted.

He faintly registered Victor’s gentle touch on his arms, and he snapped, “No!”

Victor’s hands didn’t go away though. He firmly wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist and gently pushed him away until he was out of reach. Sherlock squirmed away from him, and glared murderously at him. He started to protest and step back towards John at the same time, but then Victor took his place.

Sherlock faintly caught his breath, and met Victor’s eyes for only a moment, catching a look of realization and understanding. Victor broke their gaze first, and focused on John, pressing the compressions with careful counts under his breath.

The alarm on the heart monitor increased, and Victor removed his hands from John’s chest, only to see John was still flat lining.

“Continuing compressions,” Victor said firmly, ignoring the doctor who had just walked in. Sherlock focused on John as Victor continued to beat his heart. He was trembling under his coat, and couldn’t find the strength to think or focus on anything else.

Victor paused, and looked at the monitor as he pressed his fingers on John’s carotid artery. Sherlock blinked, and followed his gaze to the heart monitor. There was a single beat, and then another.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and looked at John. His chest was rising on it’s own, and his cheeks gradually became less pale—and alive.

Sherlock exhaled and leaned forward, resting his forehead against John’s palm. The people around him slowly left, and he barely registered gently hands pushing him into a chair. He didn’t even grasp the words exchanged between Victor and the doctor.

“He’ll be unconscious for a while, to let his body recover. And, they’ll keep an eye on him, run some tests, to make sure this won’t happen again,” Victor said in a slight resigned tone.

Sherlock nodded, however he wasn’t sure he would remember what Victor said. He inhaled and nodded again.

“Victor, I—”

“I know.” Victor sighed, and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder, and then he left the two alone.

*            *            *

Day 27

Early the next morning, John was on the ventilator. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, and gently shaving John’s face, going around the blue tubes attached to the clear tube in his mouth. It wasn’t unusual for John to still be asleep, but Sherlock was already becoming antsy.

He cleaned John’s face, and caressed his cheek before putting the supplies away. The ventilator hissed with each breath it gave John, and it sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. It was just like before, months ago, before John was declared comatose. He was attached to one of those for days, and then he was able to breath on his own, giving Sherlock hope. But he hadn’t woken up then.

 _This is different_ , Sherlock told himself. _John hadn’t hit his head this time. It had just been a heart attack, which developed into cardiac arrest. This is normal._

Despite repeating the facts to himself, Sherlock started to pace as the morning became afternoon, and then he collapsed into his chair as the sun settled behind him. He looked at John’s hand and took it, and then rested his head by John’s waist, falling, unwillingly but desperately needing, into a restless sleep.

*            *            *

For a moment, in the middle of the night, Sherlock realized Victor had been right. Sherlock had depended on him for months, almost used him in a way to keep himself sane. Sherlock couldn’t imagine going through three months alone; just a day like this was hell. But, Sherlock knew deep down, this would have been preferable, than to see John wake up again without Sherlock by his side. Victor knew that, and wanted Sherlock to make a decision. Now Sherlock knew it too, and silently did. Sherlock chose John. Victor seemed to know his choice anyway. He hadn’t returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to update as soon as possible, within the next 7 days hopefully! 
> 
> comment please!! :)


	13. Day 28-29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** I PROMISE, if I get a few comments, I'll publish the last chapter tonight.***
> 
> This chapter is short, but I think it's still good enough. Technically it was going to be attached to chapter 12, but I really liked that ending as a last cliffhanger. 
> 
> So otherwise, enjoy :)

Day 28 – Morning

Sherlock flinched awake and immediately looked around the room. The rising sun lighted his surroundings, and it was quiet apart from the hissing ventilator. He inhaled deeply and rubbed his face, but as he pulled his hand away, the hand he was holding reached for it.

Sherlock looked up to find John staring at him, a very faint grin forming around the tube.

“John?” Sherlock sighed and leaned closer as he stared into the dark blue and green ocean that surrounded John’s pupils.

John blinked heavily, but his face didn’t falter. He sighed against the ventilator and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock smiled and exhaled shakily. He ran his hand through John’s hair, and then squeezed John’s hand back.

John blinked again, and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock sighed and nodded.

“Rest. I’ll get the doctor.”

It wasn’t until the afternoon, when John was finally taken off the ventilator. He was drowsy afterwards, and very quickly fell back asleep. Although, neither of them let go of each other’s hands. Sherlock stayed awake, until it was evening again and he started to drift off.

*            *            *

Day 29

John woke up sluggishly to see it was morning, and Sherlock was sleeping with his head on their interlocked hands. He grinned to himself and reached for the button to adjust the bed.

Beside him, Sherlock flinched and looked around before focusing on John. He sighed with relief and squeezed his hand.

John adjusted to the angle, and smiled tiredly. “Sorry, I woke you up,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Sherlock shook his head, his curls becoming even more untidy. “It’s fine. I’d prefer to be awake.”

John nodded and then sighed, slightly annoyed. “I’m afraid I’m going to fall asleep soon.”

Sherlock grinned. “Go on. I’ll still be here.”

John smiled and closed his eyes, already noticing his breathing becoming labored with exhaustion. He felt a faint touch on his forehead that was wet but warm. Confused, he opened his eyes to see Sherlock looking at him. As John opened his eyes wider, Sherlock’s expression fell from soft to apologetic.

“Sorry, I—,” Sherlock stuttered.

John’s heartbeat pounded in his ears with dread. He wasn’t entirely sure he could handle a rejection, or whatever Sherlock’s reasoning may be.

“Victor?” John’s voice was a hoarse whisper, and his heart only continued to beat rapidly as he watched Sherlock’s expression carefully become cautious.

Sherlock lowered his gaze. “He told me he told you—,”

“I-I thought that was a dream,” John whispered. “Oh, Sherlock—,”

“John?” Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “What is it?”

John swallowed tightly and licked his chapped lips. “I don’t want y-you to ch-chose me just because—,”

“Never, John—,”

“Wait, Sherlock,” John whispered. “Wait.”

Sherlock paused, with clear impatience. John inhaled slowly, and then continued.

“I love you, Sherlock. But you have to decide.”

“Then I chose you,” Sherlock responded immediately. John’s eyes widened slightly and flickered with uncertainty. Sherlock leaned forward closer until he was breathing against John’s lips. He looked up into John’s blue eyes, and raised an eyebrow.

John nodded and let out a shaky breath. “No more waiting,” he agreed to Sherlock’s silent question. “No more—”

John lifted his head slightly enough and met Sherlock’s lips. They kissed slowly and hummed against each other’s mouths. John parted his mouth slightly, and lazily accepted Sherlock to deepen the kiss. He managed for a few more glorious seconds before pulling away with a tired sigh.

“I love you, too, John,” Sherlock said. John smiled, and reached for Sherlock again, kissing him with more desperation. Sherlock cupped his cheek and tilted it upwards, deepening the kiss with his tongue again and slowing their pace. He explored John’s mouth slowly, and John pulled him closer, running his tongue on Sherlock’s lip and moaning into his mouth.

Sherlock pulled back abruptly and inhaled sharply. “You just had a heart attack,” he breathed heavily. “I don’t think this is recommended.”

“A few days ago,” John provided. “Rest can wait. Us…c-can’t. Please, just keep kissing me.” He smiled, and pulled Sherlock closer, but Sherlock resisted.

“Are you sure, John?” he asked in a whisper.

John sighed and nodded confidently. “We won’t be able to do much, I know that. I’m not fully up to anything…extraneous. But this…I’m more than ok. I n-need this.”

Sherlock slowly smiled. “All right, John. As long as we are together, we can wait.”

John smiled, and pulled Sherlock back down and kissed his lips. At least for this, he was done waiting. They both were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** I PROMISE, if I get a few comments, I'll publish the last chapter tonight.***


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU to everyone who has left comments! They mean the world to me, and made this fic so much fun to publish! I hope you had a great time reading this! I can't believe I started this back in April, and thought I had finished in just a few weeks, but then my sister and wonderful editor asked for more. So a big thanks to her, greenjello94 on ao3 - check out her fics! 
> 
> Enjoy this short epilogue :)

**EPILOGUE**

**Two weeks later.**

John stood as steadily as he could underneath the shinning sun. He inhaled deeply, taking in as much of the fresh air as he could. It had been so long since he had been outside, and the wait was very much worth it.

He opened his eyes and squinted. Sherlock was standing in front of him, facing him, with his arms by his side and swaying. He was prepared to catch John if he needed to, but John knew with a heartening sensation that that was unlikely. He was still using the walking aids, but only for walking. He could stand on his own fairly well without them, and really; he only needed them for long distance. That morning he had walked to the shower without an aid, only Sherlock by his side as a precaution—one that Sherlock had insisted on.

John exhaled slowly and focused on the brightness of the outside. It was fairly cold, and he was wearing pajama bottoms and a thin jumper, but he couldn’t find himself to care. It was a beautiful day.

Sherlock stepped forward until he was nearly up into John’s space. “Ready to go?”

John huffed a laugh. “Not bloody likely.”

“You could get a cold. Your immune system is still rebooting, as is your heart. Your stress levels—.”

“Aren’t my concern right now,” John interrupted lightly. He grinned despite his protest. “Besides, it’s only been ten minutes.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Just a little bit longer, then.”

John smiled and prepared to take a step, but then he paused when he caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s face.

“Hey,” John leaned to him and raised a hand. He caressed Sherlock’s cheek gently and tilted his chin up. Sherlock met his gaze without resisting, but his eyes were flickering across his face, and he looked troubled.

“What is it?”

Sherlock licked his lips and lowered his gaze, but John wasn’t having it and raised his chin again. Sherlock clenched his jaw slightly, and then sighed.

“It’s starting to get colder. The clouds are coming in, and soon you’ll be shivering, and then you’ll barely make it to your room before you’ll have to nap. I’ll…feel better if we go now.” Sherlock avoided John’s gaze, and John was glad he did. Confusion sparked a glimmer of frustration in John, and he huffed.

“Alright, fine. C’mon.” He led the way back into the hospital, with Sherlock close behind him. He wasn’t sure exactly why Sherlock wanted him back inside so much, but he was feeling the exhausting starting to kick in, and he knew he would be less grouchy and moody if he went now.

They rode the elevator in silence, and then they made it to John’s room. He placed the walkers against the wall, and then climbed into bed. Sherlock sat in his chair, and then let out a slow sigh. John stared at him, and then he realized.

“Oh my god.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened with alert. He looked at John and prepared to stand back up if he needed to.

“What’s wrong?”

John wiped his face with his hand and sighed. “You’re exhausted.”

Sherlock relaxed slightly, but then tensed, and his brows furrowed. “What—.”

“That’s why you wanted to come back. You’re about to fall asleep. I can see it in your eyes. They keep flickering, as if you’re l-looking for something to focus on, to keep yourself awake. All for…me,” John finished with another realization, one that made him feel fondness and guilt at the same time.

Sherlock started to shake his head, but came to a weak halt. “You’re still recovering—”

“Come here,” John interrupted. He scooted over stiffly, and patted the space next to him. Sherlock didn’t question it; he stood up, removed his coat, and then lied down next to John, curling his body against him. John wrapped his arm around his shoulders and held him closer. Sherlock sighed contently, and leaned in closer, burying his face into John’s next.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock sighed. John hugged him tighter and rested his cheek against the top of Sherlock’s head.

“I know.”

*            *            *

**Four months later.**

John carefully climbed the stairs up to their flat. He leaned on the cane with caution, and lifted himself one step at a time. He had had practice with stairs back at the hospital, but not this many at once. He inhaled slowly and finally made it to the top, with Sherlock right behind him of course.

Sherlock grazed his hand on John’s lower back and walked past him.

“Sorry, it’s a mess,” he muttered to himself. John grinned at Sherlock’s sudden need to clean, and managed to grab his wrist to keep him close. Sherlock paused in his movements and looked at John. He seemed to read John’s mind, for he inhaled slowly and relaxed, and then offered a relieved grin.

“I’m glad you’re home, John,” Sherlock said. He leaned forward and kissed John lightly. John tilted his head up a little more, wanting to take the kiss further, but Sherlock was already leaning away, and reaching for their things to be put away.

John exhaled softly and looked around. The flat didn’t look messier, just dusty. The window by the desk had even been fixed, John realized. He looked back at Sherlock, who was nearly twirling around the room, subtly putting things away, trying to clean up the place. The image sparked a memory of John’s, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. Sherlock stilled and looked up at him, his eyes flickering over his body, reading him. John realized he must have inhaled sharply, almost like a gasp, causing Sherlock’s attention to go to him.

“Everything alright?” Sherlock asked tentatively.

John nodded honestly. “Good. Everything…is good.” He smiled wide at Sherlock, and his eyes glistened slightly. Sherlock softened his face, and took John’s hand in his. He squeezed it gently, and smiled.

“You’re home, now. You’re here,” Sherlock whispered, as if even he couldn’t believe it.

John smiled he wasn’t sure if he could smile even more, but he could.

Sherlock swallowed tightly, and didn’t let go of John’s hand. “I thought…” he trailed off, and shook his head.

John looked at him closely. “Thought what?” he pried gently.

Sherlock shrugged. “That you’d be gone. For good. It almost feels surreal.”

“Well, it’s not,” John replied firmly. “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock’s face brightened. John’s heart fluttered, and then he started to speak, something that had been in his mind for ages he couldn’t remember if he had thought of it himself or if he just always knew it would come to this. John thought this moment would never come though, that the right time had passed and it was too late, but as he spoke, he realized with certainty that there never was a right time, just a moment, in which he could take for the both of them.

“Sherlock, I know it hasn’t been long, but I wanted to tell you…”

Sherlock met his gaze, and nodded slightly, allowing him to continue.

John smiled nervously. “I wanted to let you know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. That whether it’s like this, or if we get married, however you like, that it’ll be us, and we won’t waste anymore time.”

Sherlock smiled so wide, John thought he was going to faint with happiness. Sherlock nodded and let out a shaky sigh. “I can’t imagine anything better.”

John smiled and pulled Sherlock closer. He kissed him hard and passionately; Sherlock moaned against his lips and deepened the kiss, and then they were stumbling into Sherlock’s chair, their hands not daring to leave the other’s body.

“Don’t stop kissing me,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips.

“Only if you don’t,” Sherlock murmured back, with a slight laugh escaping his lips. John laughed softly, and recaptured his lips. Sherlock trailed a finger along John’s cheek sending a shiver through his body. He felt Sherlock’s finger graze the scars, but this time he didn’t cringe. For a split moment, he basked in this new attention, but John’s thoughts quickly trailed away as Sherlock kissed him harder and more desperately. John kissed him back, allowing his mind to simply wander with the feel of Sherlock against his body. This wasn’t the end, John knew, it was only the beginning. And, neither of them could wait anymore. This was their future. Together, the wait was over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next fic: Through The Bone ~ Coming Soon :)
> 
> watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com
> 
> Comment please!!! ^.^

**Author's Note:**

> I have a couple more chapters left, and still need to edit the rest once more, so I'm not sure how the chapters are broken up yet. The next update should come in about 1-2 weeks, since this is only a prequel, and I'm going on vacation tomorrow and then working most of the week. So please leave comments, they really encourage me to write more and to update quicker.
> 
> There's updates and maybe hints on my tumblr: watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com
> 
> For those waiting for the 2nd part of the Nobody Knows Where They Might End Up, called Watson's Anatomy, it is coming, but not as fast as this one I'm afraid, but it will come soon. :)
> 
> Comment, subscribe ^.^


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